


Damage

by taralkariel



Series: Winter's Journey [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:51:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taralkariel/pseuds/taralkariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Sequel to the Good Soldier and Demilitarization). The cracks in the programming are getting deeper, and James is starting to figure out who he is. But things from the past continue to haunt him, and reconciling Bucky and the Winter Soldier isn't something he can do alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Now the Damage is Done

 

The night is long and quiet.  Steve soon sleeps on the floor.  He sits beside him, legs stretched out, arms folded over his chest, thinking.  There isn’t a sound in the tower.  He doesn’t want to sleep.  If he falls asleep, he might dream, and he can’t risk that.  So he waits for dawn, staring out the window, listening to Steve’s heavy breathing.  The sound is calming, but not enough.  He is beginning to fear that nothing will ever be enough.  He will be haunted the rest of his life.  However long that will be.

_Please, please, not here,” the man begged, his family frozen in terror behind him._

At length, he stands up to pace.  He is quiet so he does not disturb Steve.  And so no one else is aware of him.  He can’t stand the thought of Natasha’s pitying face, and suspects most other people he meets will look at him similarly.  His room is not large enough for the pacing to be satisfying.  He lingers by the doorway, considering.  Steve will be distressed when he wakes and finds him gone.  He doesn’t want to distress Steve.  But he cannot stand to be in here any longer.

_His arm froze in the snow.  He could feel it growing sluggish with cold.  The rest of him was, too._

He opens the door silently and as narrowly as possible to slip out.  The lights are dim in the hallway, but not off.  He walks slowly, purposelessly, down the hallway.  For a while, he walks up and down the corridor, retracing his steps.  Soon, this, too, is not enough and he wanders further from his room.  He finds himself in the elevator and pushes a button at random.  He explores several floors.  Some are similar to his own, and give no indication as to who lives on them.  Some are rows of offices.  And some are labs.

_He was attached to the chair.  He couldn’t move.  Inexplicable terror filled him as people moved around him, adjusting the machinery._

The lights come on as he enters each one, which startles him at first.  After a while, he stops noticing.  So it comes as a surprise when there is a person already working in one of them.

“Iron Giant, how’s it going?” Tony asks, not looking up at him as he enters.

He resists the instinct to jump back, but does lift his arms in a block out of habit.  The other man is seated at a bench to his right, ten feet ahead.  He can’t tell what Tony is doing.  He clears his throat and licks his lips.  “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I’d think you’d be pretty well-rested after seventy years.  Since you’re here, how about I take a look at that arm?” Tony asks, standing.

He clenches his teeth, but nods.  Tony looks at him expectantly and he walks hesitantly forward, until he is about a foot away.  He holds out his arm, and Tony closes the distance between them to look at it.  He stays still while he is inspected.  He knows his arm has been inspected many times.  It hasn’t bothered him before.  Steve would be pleased at the change.  He waits, but shifts his weight forward on his toes.  Tony mumbles to himself, but does not seem to be addressing him, so he does not respond.

_"It’s perfect,” the man said, putting on his glasses to inspect the arm more closely.  “The best one yet.  Good work, Jacob,” he added, speaking to the man standing nearby._

“How’s the Star-Spangled Man?” Tony asks suddenly

He frowns.  “Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Asleep.”

Tony laughs.  “Short and to the point.  Is that how you talk to Cap, Toy Soldier, or do you just not like me?  Because Natasha said she had a nice chat with you.”

He takes a deep breath, meeting Tony’s gaze.  “I don’t know you.”  He pauses.  “I knew your father.”

Tony’s mocking look vanishes completely and he looks very serious.  “You did?”

“Yes.  During the war,” he adds, frowning in concentration.

“Yeah?” Tony prompts quietly.

“Steve introduced us in the bar.  He made jokes.”

Tony’s eyes close briefly.  “What else do you remember?”

He looks away, clenching his jaw again.  “Nothing you want to hear,” he says at last.

“What?” Tony asks. 

He can feel the man’s eyes on him, boring into him.  He hates himself.  Why didn’t he stay upstairs, in his room, where he was safe?  He bites his lip and shakes his head slowly.  “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

Tony is standing, close by, voice dangerously low, staring at him.  “It wasn’t an accident,” he admits quietly, remembering how Steve had put it.

Tony sits down heavily.  “It was you,” he says finally, resignedly.

“I didn’t know,” he replies, arm still held out awkwardly.

“You didn’t know you were killing someone?  Someone who had children who you orphaned?” Tony asks coldly.

He sets his shoulders, lowering his arm and holding both of them stiff at his sides, frowning.  “I knew,” he says with equal coldness.  “I didn’t have a choice.”

Tony glares up at him and he prepares himself for the fight he feels is imminent.  His ribs still hurt a bit, and his right shoulder hasn’t healed all the way, but he is ready.  All expression leaves his face and he stares at the other man blankly.  The other man is five nine, one hundred eighty pounds, forties.  If he has none of his suits nearby, there will be no contest.  If he does have one…

_He twisted, evading the attack of the man in the full-body suit.  He had a strange weapon, like a laser blast.  Whatever it struck destroyed everything, making a man disappear as neatly as if he’d never existed.  Fear of being hit by that made his movements faster, animalistic.  He threw his knife when he had the slightest opening and the man went down._

“Bucky?”

Tony turns to look at Steve, who is entering the room.  He glances briefly toward the door, but keeps his attention on Tony, poised for a fight.

“Your BFF killed my parents,” Tony says grimly, without preamble.

Steve is staring at him, looking tired and betrayed.  “I know,” he says quietly.

“Did you?” Tony replies, momentarily at a loss, shock on his face.

“He just told me.  He was dreaming about it.”  Steve pauses.  “I didn’t think we should tell you.  It wasn’t his fault.”

Tony glares.  “I took responsibility for all the lives lost from the weapons my company manufactured.  Because it was my fault.”

Steve looks at Tony, almost as crestfallen as he remembers him being when he’d first recognized the Winter Soldier as Bucky.  Steve then turns his attention to his friend, his distress clearly written on his face.  He knows that Steve wants to protect him from this knowledge, from what he’s done.  But he can’t.  Tony is watching the two of them, still upset.  He sighs.  People were rarely upset around him before, unless he was about to kill them.

“It wasn’t a choice, but it was my mission,” he says, breaking the tense silence.  “Someone else would have done it differently.  Might have left survivors,” he adds.  Tony closes his eyes and looks away at last.

“Buck,” Steve begins, painfully.

“He deserves to know what he’s harboring in his home,” he says sharply, cutting him off.  Steve frowns at him, hurt and angry.  Tony turns to look at him also, surprised.  “I don’t know what he might owe you, but he owes me nothing.  Less than nothing.  I’ll be fine on my own,” he adds resolutely, standing tall and turning to leave.

Steve looks as though he might break down.  Tony stands, stepping closer.  He backs up automatically, in a defensive stance.  “Slow down, Soldier Boy.  I’d rather have you here underfoot than out there doing who knows what.  Plus, Capsicle here would go wandering off again, and then who would give me history lessons while we’re watching TV?”  Tony expression is back to how it was when he first walked in, though his eyes retain the emotions he was showing more obviously moments before.  “Why don’t you two old-timers go back up to your rooms and listen to a record or something.  I’ll check out the arm later,” Tony suggests, and leaves the lab abruptly.

He looks at Steve, who is watching the other man go, a perplexed look on his face.  “He’s hard to read,” he says at last.  He turns back.  “Do you want to go upstairs?”

He shrugs one shoulder, shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Sure.”

They walk in silence back to the elevator.  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Steve asks softly as they board.

“Didn’t think of it,” he says shortly.

Steve stares at him.  “Bucky…  James.  We’re friends.  I’m here for you, whenever you need me.  I know there are plenty of things I won’t understand, but I’ll try my best.”

He nods, and the elevator lets them off on their floor.  They reach his door first.  Steve pauses, uncomfortable, outside the door, glancing at him, then at the floor.  “I don’t want to sleep,” he admits.  He pauses, looking in the room and back at Steve.  “I… I don’t really want to be alone,” he adds softly, tentatively.

“Let’s go watch television,” Steve suggests, smiling.

“Okay,” he says hesitantly.


	2. I Can't Escape, Can't Run

 

 “What was it like?” Bucky asked suddenly.  They were sitting on the couches in the living room by the kitchen.  The television was on.  Bucky had been watching it intently for over an hour.  He hadn’t said anything, but his brow was furrowed in confusion frequently.  The question startled Steve, who was beginning to doze.

“What was what like?” he responded, looking sharply at the screen for clues.

“Being asleep.  Dying,” Bucky said quietly.

He turned to look at his friend, whose gaze remained fixed on the flashing images ahead.  “It was cold,” he said at last, the whole experience running through his head.  It was hard to put to words.

“Did you dream?  While you were under.”

Steve thought about it.  “I think so.  I remembered some stuff.  You, Peggy, the rest of the Commandos.  The whole life passing before your eyes thing.  I don’t know if I had any dreams after that.”  Bucky nodded, but did not say anything else.  His jaw was set, though.  “Did you?” he asked him slowly.

Bucky met his eye, and he immediately regretted the question.  “No.  They usually wiped me first.  So I would be empty when they needed me again.”

Steve was at a loss for how to reply.  Bucky returned his gaze to the television, his expression forbidding comment.  He watched his friend uncertainly for a few minutes, aching to be able to help him.  But he didn’t know what to do.  Buck was opening up to him, but it was slow.  It was clearly painful.  It went against his training, to talk about himself.  To think of himself as someone, not something.  Steve clenched his jaw, enraged at the thought.

“I was flying,” he said abruptly.  Bucky turned to look at him, surprise very briefly passing over his features before returning to a sort of stoic interest.  His soldier face, Steve supposed.  “Do you know anything about what happened after you… fell?” he asked.

“Nothing from a good source,” Bucky replied, something like a sneer twisting his mouth.

“Well, we caught Zola.  Colonel Phillips questioned him.  Do you remember Colonel Phillips?”

Buck cocked his head, considering.  “Nope.”

“That’s okay,” Steve hastened to say.  “Anyway, he told us where Schmidt was.  So the remaining Commandos infiltrated his last base.  Do you remember the Commandos?”

“Jones was with us, on the train.  Dugan, Morita.  They were in my unit.  Falsworth and Dernier,” he seemed about to go on, but shrugged.  “I remember them,” he said firmly.

“Good,” Steve said with a smile.  “I went in alone through the front door; they came in the back window after I was captured.  It was a good fight for a while, but Schmidt almost escaped.  He had some kind of new plane, and Colonel Phillips, Peggy, and I chased it in Schmidt’s car.  They managed to get me onto the plane before it took off, and there were a lot of bombs in it, each one headed for a different city.  Schmidt had some kind of blue cube that gave him power, and, somehow, when we were fighting, it started glowing more.  It melted him, or sucked him into another dimension, or something.”

“What?” Bucky interrupted incredulously.

Steve was pleased to see the consternation on his face; he’d be happy to see any emotion besides pain and confusion on his friend’s face.  “Yeah, things are pretty crazy these days.  I was fighting off an alien invasion just a few months ago.”  Bucky shook his head wordlessly, almost smiling in his disbelief.  And admiration, maybe.  “So, anyway, I was on the plane and there were these bombs.  Schmidt and all his men were gone.  I didn’t know what to do.  We were pretty far north, over a lot of ice.  So I put it down,” he went on, quietly.

“Did you save the world?” Bucky asked seriously.

“I guess so,” Steve admitted with a self-effacing smile.

“Then what happened?”

He looked at Bucky, who was still staring at him intently.  “Then it got cold.  I thought of what I was leaving behind.”  He looked down at his hands.  “I thought about finally joining my parents.  And you.”

There was silence.  “Well, I bet you weren’t picturing meeting up with me like this,” Bucky said quietly, ironically, after a moment.

Steve laughed sharply.  “Yeah, no, that was definitely not what I was expecting.”

Bucky cleared his throat.  He didn’t laugh, but he almost smiled.  “Then you woke up.”

He thought about that.  “I was in a bedroom.  There was a radio playing a baseball game.  The one we went to in ’41, do you remember?”

“No.”

“Yeah, well, it was weird to hear.  A lady came in to talk to me, dressed just like she should have been, but I knew something was off.  So I ran.  It was a set.  Like, for a movie.  It wasn’t real.  It looked like New York, but it was painted,” he explained.  He shook his head.  “Then I got outside.  Have you been to Time’s Square lately?”

Bucky pressed his lips together for a moment, thinking, before he answered.  “I went to Brooklyn before I came here,” he murmured.

“You did?” Steve asked, surprised.

Bucky nodded silently.  He took a deep breath.  “But I haven’t seen whatever you saw when you woke.”

“Well, we might have to check it out.  It’s pretty … overwhelming.  Anyway, I was running down the street and these cars pulled up all around me to trap me.  Then this man got out of one of them, and said I’d been asleep for seventy years.”

“What did you do then?”

Steve shrugged.  “I believed him.  It certainly looked like a long time had passed since I was in New York.  Much more than a couple of years.  I was definitely in the future,” he added, looking at Bucky thoughtfully.  “I… I told him I missed a date.  With Peggy.”

“Yeah, by a lot,” Bucky mumbled, lips curving slightly.  It was hard to tell if it was a grimace or a smile, though.

“Nick Fury was the head of SHIELD.  So they took me in.  Gave me a job, a home, something to do.  I needed that,” he admitted.  Bucky nodded, brow furrowed, clearly understanding.  He thought of how his friend had spoken of his time after pulling him, Steve, out of the river.  It was his mission.  He’d finished his mission, coming here, back to Steve.  Now he didn’t have anything to do, not really.  No wonder he was tortured by his dreams, and hated the idea of sleeping.  He resolved to see about finding his friend something to do with his time.

“Anyway, it was rough for a while.  A lot has changed.  I didn’t know how to fit in the world anymore.  Fury came to recruit me after a while for the Avenger’s Initiative.  It really helped, because it was familiar.  I mean, the other Avengers are practically legends, but I worked with Clint and Natasha mostly.  They’re spies.  I gave orders during the battle.  It was… Well, a good thing to do.  It was nice to be back in the world.”

“Now what will you do?” Bucky asked.

“I don’t know.  Maria Hill is part of the new SHIELD.  So I may do some more work with her as times goes on.  In any case, she works for Stark Industries, and I’ll work with Tony,” he added.  “What are you going to do, now that you’re free of HYDRA?” Steve asked his friend quietly, not sure if he was ready to answer.

“What I’ve always done, I guess.”

“What’s that?”

Bucky smiled grimly, the weight of years obvious in his expression.  “Follow Steve Rogers,” he said frankly.

Steve smiled back, and ignored the damp feeling in his eyes, at a loss for words.


	3. Can't Undo What I've Done

 

            Watching the television is strange.  He has done it before, briefly, but it takes getting used to.  He watches intently, trying to understand Steve’s suggestion to pass the time before morning.  He is tired, but focusing helps.  It is good to keep his mind on something else for a while.  It is good not to let it wander to strange and unpleasant places.

            Steve is very quiet.  He has been since he told him the truth.  Most of his memories from before being part of HYDRA involve Steve.  He is sure he had a life outside of Steve, of course, but the man is his only connection to who he was before he became a weapon.  He doubts that he will ever be that person again, but it is somewhere to start.  It’s for the mission.

_“James Buchanan Barnes, shipping out for England, first thing in the morning,” he said, putting on his bravest face.  No one was going to see how afraid he was._

            He tears his eyes away from the screen when he hears footsteps approaching.  He tenses automatically, ready to respond, and forces himself to relax.  He glances at Steve, who is unmoved.  Does he not notice the sound?

            “Hey, Cap, I thought I’d drop by,” a voice begins, stopping abruptly as the figure comes into view.  He stares at him, cocking his head.  The other man, from the mission.  He remembers disabling his wings and kicking him off the helicarrier.  He doesn’t know him.  He wasn’t a target.

            “Hey, Sam,” Steve says calmly, looking up at the intruder.

            “You went and found him without me?” the man, Sam?, says, almost smiling.

            “He found me,” Steve replies.  “Sam, this is James.  James, Sam.”

            “We’ve met,” Sam says, making himself comfortable on the other end of Steve’s couch.  There is humor in his tone.  He is not upset.  “You broke my wing.”  He is teasing, perhaps.

            “It’s probably fixable,” he replies, quietly, glancing at Steve.

            “Yeah?  Who do you think will fix a stolen military grade suit?”

            “Tony Stark.”

            Sam laughs.  “Yeah, I asked him.  He said he’d get to it eventually,” he says, rolling his eyes.  Steve looks between them, relief on his face.  “So, Cap, you didn’t think this was news you should share with me?  So I could call off the manhunt?” he asks, waving toward him.

            Steve smiles.  “Were you still hunting?  I thought you were back at the VA.”

            “Hey, man, my ear was to the ground.  It would have been nice to know I could stand back up,” Sam replies emphatically.  Steve laughs.  “So, James, what have you been up to?”

            He blinks, surprised to be addressed.  “Trying to remember,” he says.

            “Yeah?  How’s that going for you?”  The humor is not gone, but the question seems genuine, almost concerned.

            He shrugs.  “Not fun.”

            Sam nods.  “I can understand that.  What kinds of things do you remember?”

            He cocks his head, determining if he needs to answer this man or only Steve.  Steve is looking at him intently, encouragingly.  He relents.  “Falling from the train.  Meeting Steve when we were kids.  The Howling Commandos.  Missions.  Training.  Pierce, Zola.  Getting my arm.”  His voice grows quieter as he continues the list, and he stretches his arm out to look at it on the last one.

            “Are things still coming back?”

            “When I sleep.”

            Sam nods.  “Which is why you guys are up so early and look so terrible.”

            “Terrible?  That’s how it is?” Steve asks, grinning.

            “Yeah, pretty bad.  I mean, you two look like death warmed over,” Sam replies adamantly, shaking his head.

            “That’s kind of what happened,” he interjects softly.

            Sam laughs, looking at him in surprise.  “You’re right, man, I apologize.  Do either of you need a blanket?  Some hot cocoa, maybe?”

            They laugh, and even he chuckles a little.  It is an unfamiliar sensation, though he knows Bucky laughed a lot.  The Winter Soldier rarely smiled, never laughed. 

            “How about some breakfast?” Sam asks, looking at Steve pointedly.

            “We haven’t eaten,” Steve replies.  “But I don’t remember inviting you.”

            “I feel like you owe me breakfast, though,” Sam tells him.  “I mean, I gave you some breakfast and you repaid me by putting me in numerous situations where people tried to kill me.  No offense,” he adds, turning away from Steve, smiling at the soldier briefly.  “The least you could do is feed me once in a while.”

            “Fine,” Steve said, throwing up his hands in mock defeat.  He stands and leaves the room in the direction of the kitchen.  He watches his friend go, mildly uncomfortable at being left here alone with Sam. 

            “James,” Sam says quietly, no trace of humor in his voice or on his face when he turns to look at him.  “I can’t imagine what this has been like for you.  But I work with a lot of soldiers coming back from the war.  We’ve lost people, we’ve killed people.  We aren’t the same.  But that doesn’t mean we can’t cope and be who we are.”

            He clears his throat and he shifts his weight, leaning forward on his knees, considering.  “I don’t know who I am,” he says matter-of-factly.  To convince the man not to concern himself.

            There was that look again, that pitying look.  Sam hides it quickly, but he notices.  It’s becoming easy to spot.  “You’ll figure it out,” he says confidently.  His confidence feels genuine.  “It’ll take a while, it won’t be easy.  But you’ll get there.”

            “How do you know?” he asks.

            Sam shrugs.  “You have Cap pulling for you.  He’s a stubborn guy.  And, from what I hear, so are you.”

            “What do you hear?” he wants to know.  Very much wants to know.

            The other man looks away, thinking.  “When Cap found you, on that first mission, you’d been tortured and starved and they were working you guys to death.  And you were just repeating your name, rank, and personnel number.”  He shakes his head, smiling grimly.  “Man, most people couldn’t handle half that before they give in.”

            His brow furrows as he concentrates.  “I remember that,” he says slowly.

            “Yeah?”  He nods.  “Then you were one of the Howling Commandos.  Those guys were badass!  Just the seven of you, most of the time, taking down HYDRA bases and taking high-profile prisoners of war.  It was always awesome to hear about those missions,” Sam says.

            “I remember some of those,” he tells him.

            “That’s good, man, that’s good.  I’m glad that stuff’s coming back.  It’ll help you figure out what makes you happy.”

            He sighs.  Happy?  He’d spent the last seventy years doing exactly what he was told without question.  “I don’t know that happiness is an option,” he mutters.

            “Hey, man, you’ll get there.  You’ve got plenty of folks around you to help,” Sam assures him, leaning forward to meet his eye.

            “Do I?”

            “Yeah, you know, Steve, me, Natasha, Tony.  Probably the other Avengers, if they’re around.”

            “Why?” he asks.

            “Because you’re a hero, man.  You were Captain America’s right hand man.  We aren’t going to stand by and let HYDRA keep that from you,” Sam says vehemently.

            He smiles weakly, surprised and confused by the idea.  He clears his throat before he speaks again, to keep his voice steady.  “Yeah, well, you may be fighting for a lost cause.”

            Sam looks at him intensely until he has to look away.  “James.  You can do whatever you want to do.”

            “I don’t think Steve will let me,” he grumbled.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I died for Captain America.  It didn’t stick.”

            Sam stands up, walks over, and sits next to him on the couch.  He flinches away, but stays seated.  “Steve told me not long after we met that he didn’t know what made him happy.  I think he still doesn’t know.  But he’s working on it.  We all are.  It’s part of life.  You may have pretty far to go, farther than any of us, but that doesn’t mean you should give up.  As far as I know, you’ve never let anyone, or anything, stop you from completing a mission,” he tells him sincerely.  “Now, I smell bacon, so let’s go see what kind of cook Steve is,” he adds, his tone light as he stands.  Sam offers his hand, and he takes it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet.


	4. Do You Hear Me Now?

 

Breakfast was almost ready when Bucky and Sam appeared.  Sam looked as upbeat as he always did, and Bucky looked… different.  It was hard to identify; he didn’t want to say he looked hopeful, but there was certainly a different air about him.  Steve wondered what they had been talking about.  He was sure Sam had sent him away so he could talk to Bucky.

“That smells great,” Sam said, making himself comfortable at the bar.  Bucky hung back, not speaking, seeming lost in thought.  It wasn’t like when he was lost in memories, though.  That was probably an improvement.  He nodded thanks at Sam, who nodded almost imperceptibly back.

“Bacon and eggs are the best way to start off a day, especially if the night wasn’t so good before,” Steve said as he served up the meal.

The men ate in silence.  Steve was reminded of the numerous times he had eaten rations in barracks over the course of the war.  Taking a break from duty to eat was serious business, and there was rarely much conversation in the mess hall, at least until most of the food was gone.  It was nice to have Sam there.  It made it easier not to watch Bucky so closely, not to worry over him.  He’d always hated being worried over, by his mother, by Bucky’s mother.  Bucky hadn’t ever worried over him, just looked out for him with a sort of confident bravado that made it impossible to feel like pity drove Bucky’s actions.  He hoped he could do the same, now that it was Bucky who needed the help.

Bucky was still standing.  He hadn’t sat down to eat.  He looked dead on his feet from exhaustion.  Steve wondered again if he’d slept at all in the last seventy years.  He didn’t know anything about cryofreezing, but it wouldn’t surprise him if it hadn’t been particularly restful.  HYDRA was unlikely to be concerned with Bucky’s health unless it was going to affect a mission.  And, if his memories were returning every time he slept now…

“Do you want to try to get some sleep, James?” he asked.

Bucky glanced up at him sharply, his blue eyes focusing on his coldly, defensively.  The look passed quickly, fortunately, and he nodded slowly.  “Yeah…  Maybe I’ll be too tired to dream anything,” he mumbled. 

Steve smiled grimly, not sure if his friend expected to be heard.  “We’ll be out here if you need anything.”  Bucky walked slowly out of the room, giving a sketchy wave with his metal hand before disappearing around the corner.

“So, are you going to fill me in on what happened?” Sam asked as soon as Bucky was (probably) out of earshot.

Steve shrugged, getting to his feet to deal with the dishes.  “I came home a couple days ago and he was waiting in my room.  Scared me half to death,” he admitted.

Sam looked in the direction Bucky had gone and gave a sour laugh.  “Yeah, I can imagine that could have been a nasty surprise.”

“I don’t know how he got in.  He told me he knew me, and that he remembered some things.  I think he was, is, pretty confused from what they did to him.  I got him to go to sleep in my room without really trying, and go back to sleep just by suggesting it when he woke up from a violent nightmare.  It was pretty disturbing, seeing him so docile and obedient.”  He didn’t know if it was worse than seeing him as the Winter Soldier, but it was bad.

Sam shook his head.  “He’s a killing machine out there.  I mean, he used a grappling gun no bigger than a garage door opener to hook me and pulled me to the ground just like he was coiling up a damn vacuum cord.  I am not surprised they had to condition him to be nice and suggestible when he came in,” he said, his tone disdainful.

Sighing, Steve leaned on the counter to look at his friend.  “Do you think he can come back?”

“I don’t know, man.  He doesn’t know if he wants to,” Sam said gently.

“He said that?” Steve asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the anxiety from his voice.

“Not exactly.  He said he’d died for you, and they took that from him.  Steve, they took all his choices from him.  He doesn’t know he’s a person.  He doesn’t know how to be.”

“It’s coming back,” Steve said, but he could hear how his tone rose at the end uncertainly.

“I don’t know,” Sam repeated.  “He’s got amnesia, he’s got PTSD, he’s got whatever you’re going through, Rip Van Winkle syndrome or some shit, culture shock.  It’s a lot.  I have no idea how he can keep getting up in the morning.”

“Not going to bed probably helps,” Steve muttered, staring intently at the counter in front of him.  What could he do to help his friend?

“Look, Steve, I know it’s pretty damn great that he recognized you before he killed you,” Sam began.

“He rescued me,” Steve interrupted vehemently.

“Yeah, I know.  That’s great, too.  More than we really had reason to hope for.  And it’s really cool that he snuck in here somehow because he remembered you.  But we need to be careful about what we expect him to be able to do,” Sam cautioned him.  “Some of it may never come back.”

Steve sighed, letting the air out slowly as he leaned heavily on the granite surface in front of him.  “I can’t let him fall again,” he said quietly.

“It’s not your fault, Steve,” Sam told him sharply.  He came around the counter and put a comforting hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “You did everything you could.”

He was strongly reminded of Peggy.  That’s what she had said, too, when he had been trying to drink away the pain of losing Bucky the first time.  This time, it was worse.  He hadn’t just lost Bucky.  Bucky had been taken, and tortured, and lost his humanity, all to become a weapon to be used against Steve.

“I should have just stayed in Brooklyn and worked at a damn factory,” he said, his voice steady again.

“Shut up, Steve.  Then HYDRA would have succeeded in 1945.”

Steve nodded slowly.  It was worth this, all of this, to save the world from HYDRA.  Losing Bucky, seeing Bucky lost, losing everyone and everything he knew…  That was still better than seeing the world swallowed up by the horrors that would have resulted if he hadn’t been there to stop that plane.

“And Loki might have succeeded, if there were only three Avengers,” Sam continued.

“I get it,” Steve said softly.  He cleared his throat, standing up straight.  “I always wanted to serve.  I knew the risks.”  That was false, of course.  Never in his worst nightmares had he imagined what people might do to his best friend.  He’d asked Bucky to follow him into the jaws of death, not into whatever this hell was.  “What do you think we can do to help him?”

Sam considered, folding his arms over his chest.  “Has he had any bad reactions to things?  Been startled and reacted violently?”

“Well, he attacked Natasha when she surprised us in the kitchen.  He didn’t do that when you came by, though,” he said thoughtfully.  “I can tell he’s always stressed, and wakes up screaming most of the time.  He trashed his room when he was upset about … one of the missions.”

“Did he tell you which one?”

Steve swallowed.  “Yeah.”  Sam looked at him expectantly.  “He was the reason Howard and his wife had a car accident,” he said quietly.

Sam looked blank for a moment, then it registered.  “Howard Stark.  You knew him, right?”

“Yeah, during the war.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, they met a few times.  They weren’t particularly close, but it sure upset him when he woke.  He was also opposed to staying here, because it’s Tony’s place,” he added.

“He was?  That’s good, man, that’s definitely progress,” Sam told him, looking almost cheerful.

“Why?” Steve asked, surprised.

“Because I don’t think HYDRA wanted him to care about his missions.  To feel bad when he steps on someone’s toes.  So, if he’s worried about Tony not wanting him here because of what happened to his parents, that is some real empathy.  Now, I mean, with the empathy will probably come a lot of regret, but it’s the only way he can move on from who he was for the last seventy years.”

Steve smiled, releasing some of the tension he’d been holding onto ever since he first saw Bucky on that bridge.  “So he might be okay?”

Sam shrugged, but smiled, too.  “I hope so, Cap.”


	5. Will You Answer Me?

 

            _“The man on the bridge,” he asks quietly, “who was he?”_

_“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” the man replies, looking concerned at his reaction._

_“I knew him,” he states, surprised and disturbed by the idea.  He can tell the man is looking at him intently, trying to read him.  He tells him that he is needed, that HYDRA is about to succeed, and he must do his part.  He listens passively, trying to understand the flashes of far-off scenes that were appearing before his eyes.  “But I knew him,” he says finally, painfully.  He knows he is letting the man down, but he can’t move on from this.  This is something he desperately needs to understand._

_“Prep him,” the man says dismissively, standing up._

_“He’s been out of cryofreeze for too long,” a man in a bowtie tells him._

_“Then wipe him,” the man orders impatiently._

_He lets them push him back, fit a guard into his mouth, clamp him into the restraints.  He is so confused.  Part of him wants this to happen so he can move on and get back to the mission.  He hates this feeling.  He begins to breathe heavily, panicked, as the machine is lowered over his head, over parts of his face.  He screams._

 

            There is a hand on his shoulder; his right one.  It’s not sore anymore.  He moves fast, rolling away and out of his bed, crouching near the window.  He is ready to escape through it.  He doesn’t know what floor he’s on; it doesn’t matter.

            “Easy, there, Barnes.”  Natasha, he remembers, forcing himself to calm down and hating that she is here, seeing him like this.  It’s probably worse than Steve being here.  “You didn’t look like you were enjoying your nap.  I thought I’d help you out,” she tells him.

            He runs his flesh hand through his hair.  “Thanks,” he mumbles, not meeting her eye.

            “Well, I was going to take care of some things outside, and I thought you might like to go on a mission with me.  Give you something to do,” she offers.

            He looks down at himself.  He is not dressed for a mission.  He isn’t really dressed at all.  His jaw clenches.  There are scars across his chest, his back, his remaining arm; many are faint, but they are still there.  The worst ones are on his shoulder, where the metal arm connects.  He knows it looks painful.  He is glad to be wearing loose trousers, so she doesn’t see the scars on his legs.  Some are pretty nasty from the fall.  He doesn’t want to see any more pity on her face.  He straightens, looking at her.  “What kind of mission?”

            “Tailing a low-level HYDRA agent to see if he’ll lead us to some bigger fish,” she says, leaning against the wall, arms folded.  She is dressed for a mission, in close-fitting black with a utility belt and some kind of weapon on her wrists.

            “Is … anyone else going?” he asks.

            “No, just me.  And you, if you like.”

            He frowns at her, perplexed that she is offering this.  He thinks of what Sam said earlier, and wonders what she has heard about him.  “Alright.  Give me a minute,” he says.

            She nods.  She might be smiling, but she ducks out of the room before he can be certain.  He isn’t sure what to wear.  He has his own mission gear, of course, but doesn’t know if he should risk wearing them, especially if he might be recognized by another agent.  He chooses to wear the trousers, knee pads, boots, and gloves, but one of the shirts he selected earlier at the store.  Black pants aren’t particularly noticeable, and he wants to cover his metal arm.  Who knows where tailing the agent might take them.

            When he leaves his room, she is standing across from the door, leaning against the wall, as languid as a cat, and studying her fingernails.  “Ready?” she asks, barely glancing up.

            “Yes.”

            He follows her to the elevator.  He listens to the soft ping as they pass floors.  He is silent, and somewhat relieved that she is, too.  He doesn’t know how far he should trust her, even if she is Steve’s friend.  When they reach the basement, the doors open and she exits.  He follows, cautiously.  They are in a parking garage.  There are a lot of vehicles there, some of which are rather impressive.  He doesn’t have time to inspect any, though, for she quickly walks to the least noticeable one and climbs in the driver’s seat.  He gets in next to her.

            _He tightened his grip on the sides of the seat as the vehicle skidded on two wheels, tilting dangerously.  He threw his weight automatically to maintain balance, and they thudded back level.  The tires squealed as they accelerated.  He continued to hold on with his left arm, using his right to aim his rifle._

            She drives out of the garage.  He knew, at some point, where they were, but does not recognize the streets now.  He finds himself unable to access the map he had memorized before finding the Tower.  That is somewhat concerning, and he frowns deeply.

            “You still with me, Barnes?” she asks.

            He pulls himself back to the present with difficulty.  “Yeah,” he replies shortly. 

            “Good.  I was kind of hoping you might be able to help me recognize some people,” she says, her eyes fixed on the road.

            He shrugs.  “I’ll do what I can,” he says, noncommittally.

            “Great,” she says with a smile.  He glances at her briefly, then looks back outside, trying to assess where they are going.  He does not doubt that he can find his way back if he needs to, but is encountering an unfamiliar feeling for the beginning of a mission.  Nervousness.  He wonders if Bucky ever was nervous.  The Winter Soldier wasn’t.  He wonders which of those he is more of, at this point.  Maybe neither.

            _He had a team with him.  It was snowing heavily.  The men were taking cover where they could, hunkering down under canvas.  He could barely see his hand in front of his face, but his goggles helped him stare into the blank whiteness.  Finally, he could see lights ahead.  He moved forward, not knowing or caring if the men came with him._

            The car stops.  He looks around, hiding his surprise.  Natasha climbs out and he follows.  They are in a large parking lot, for the City, and numerous tall buildings surround them.  He doesn’t mind the sky being shut out as much as it is, which is not expected.  Many of his missions were in the wilderness; he can remember there being a lot of sky.  This is more comfortable.  They enter one of the buildings, and he follows her down a broad tile corridor.  She stops at an elevator and they wait.  She glances at him, then away.  He shifts uncomfortably.  He usually has more information before a mission.  He doesn’t know what to ask, though.

            The elevator lets them off at the floor she selected.  She leans out, looking around, before exiting and motioning for him to follow.  The halls are silent and he wonders what sort of place this is.  There are doors at regular intervals, each containing a frosted glass panel about two feet by two feet in the wood.  Some are labeled with people’s names and titles made up of random letters, as far as he can tell.  All of the doors are closed, which is somewhat odd, since it is the middle of the day.  The building does not show any obvious signs of abandonment.

_The paint was peeling from the walls, what little of it remains, and mold had formed in many of the corners of the room.  He stepped out of the chamber, knees buckling._

            Natasha stops at one of the doors and leans against it, listening.  She smiles at him, reassuringly, but the expression does not reach her eyes.  He waits patiently while she picks the lock.  She uses a different method from the one he usually uses, but she has some small metal tools, and he usually just has a knife.  Sometimes not even a small knife.  He only has one knife still in his possession; it is in his boot right now.  It is comforting to have it.  He does not feel prepared for a mission with only it, though.

_His team was surrounding a door, speaking in whispers.  He ignored them and strode forward, shifting his weight to kick it down when he reached it._

            They enter the office, as it clearly is.  There are filing cabinets lining the room.  He stands in the middle of the room, watching her go around from drawer to drawer, removing files and piling them on the desk next to him.  When there are seventeen files on the desk, she stops, apparently satisfied.  He shifts his weight impatiently.

            “Don’t worry, Barnes, we’re just getting started.  Take a look at these, will you?  See if anyone rings any bells,” she says, dropping into the desk chair and putting her feet on the desk.

            He picks up one of the files and rests it on his metal arm while he flips through it.  Most of the information contained within it is text, but there are a few photos.  He stares at these intently, then shakes his head.  One by one, he leafs through them, searching for anything, or anyone, familiar.  On the eighth one, he stops, brow furrowing as he looks at a brown-haired man in glasses and shirtsleeves, wearing a bowtie.

            “Recognize him?” Natasha asks, leaning forward, interrupting his thoughts.

            “Yeah,” he says slowly.

            She takes the file from him, gently, as though he might resist, and reads it.  “He’s a technician,” she says, meeting his eye.  “Very good with cybernetics, apparently.”

            “He worked on my arm,” he tells her.

            She nods.  “Any more?” she asks, gesturing back to the pile.

            He looks back at the files, and continues to go through them.  Three others are familiar, but much more vaguely.  He can remember the bowtie man working on him, once he saw him again.  The others are just ghosts.  Natasha looks through them and seems particularly interested in one man, five ten, sandy hair, one hundred ninety pounds, late twenties to early thirties.

            “Okay, let’s go find him,” she says with a smile that reaches her eyes.


	6. Are You Even There?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I forgot to mention it earlier, the chapter titles are from Damage by RED :) Thank you to everyone who's given kudos or commented!

 

            After their talk, Sam went to the room he used in the Tower.  Steve finished cleaning up the kitchen and returned to his room.  He stopped himself from going to Bucky’s room to check on him, figuring that, if he was asleep, he would appreciate not being interrupted, and, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t like to be reminded of it.  He was tired.  It would be nice to get some rest, too.  He lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, watching the room grow lighter as time passed.

            Sam was a good friend, and a good ally.  When he’d been well enough, and probably before then, they’d begun the search for Bucky.  Natasha and Nick were in the wind.  He hadn’t expected to be called back for any reason.  SHIELD was gone, he’d thought.  They’d barely planned where to go before Maria Hill had found him, and asked him to serve the new SHIELD.  There was a new director, she’d told him.  She’d smiled when she’d said it, but not told him who it was.  Bucky was a ghost.  They were chasing whispers.  No one had seen him after the helicarriers were destroyed.

 

_“Where do you think he’ll go?” Sam asked him as they formulated a plan in a diner in Washington D.C.  Steve had been out of the hospital less than a day._

_“I don’t know.  It depends on what he’s remembered,” Steve replied, running his hand through his hair in frustration.  The movement pulled at the wounds in his stomach and he winced._

_Sam nodded, a look of concern briefly crossing his face.  “Do you think he’s remembering things?”_

_“Maybe.  The first base where he was trained was in Germany, near Stuttgart.  He was moved to one outside of Moscow in the fifties.  They sent him to get rid of a Senator in New York during the seventies and he didn’t come back.  They had to hunt him down.”_

_Sam’s eyebrows rose.  “Really?  Maybe he went back to Brooklyn.”_

_Steve shrugged.  “It didn’t say, only that he should not be allowed on American soil if avoidable.”_

_“Why did Pierce bring him here, then?”_

_He sighed.  “I have a feeling they were done with him.  His last mission, keeping me busy,” he muttered._

_“Well, that’s fucked up,” Sam said._

_Steve laughed grimly.  “Yeah.  We need to find him.  Before what’s left of HYDRA does.”_

_“Let’s start in New York.  We can head to Stark’s, and use it as a base.  Maybe he’ll head back home.”_

_Before Steve could reply, relieved that Sam had made the call of what to do, his phone started to ring.  He pulled it out, frowning.  “Hello?”_

_“Steve?” the female voice on the line questioned._

_“Yes,” he said quietly._

_“It’s me, Sharon.  Agent 13.  Um, Katie, your neighbor.  I need to talk to you.”_

_“I, uh, don’t know what for.”_

_“Are you still in D.C.?  It would be better in person,” she said, voice resolute._

_“I am, yeah.”_

_“Can you meet me at the diner on 18 th and U in twenty minutes?”_

_“Sure.”_

_The line went dead.  He looked up at Sam, frowning.  “What was that about?” Sam asked._

_“It was Sharon, the agent who used to live next to me.  She wants to meet.”_

_“You think you should go alone?”_

_“No,” he said after a moment of thought._

_“Then let’s go.”_

_Sam drove them to the diner she’d described.  She was already sitting in a booth inside when they arrived.  Sam checked the perimeter and sat down at the counter.  Steve joined her in the booth.  She was dressed in a suit, her long blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.  Steve wondered if any of her cover had been true._

_“Thanks for coming,” she said to him, glancing briefly at Sam._

_“What’s this about?” Steve asked.  “SHIELD’s gone.  I heard you went over to CIA.”_

_“It’s not about that.”  She cleared her throat.  “I’m glad you’re feeling better.  What are you going to do now, if you can’t work for SHIELD?”  She looked at him almost sadly._

_He shrugged.  “Find my friend.”  She raised her eyebrows.  “He was taken captive by HYDRA.  He’s free now,” he explained._

_She nodded.  “You’re a good man, Steve.  We were hoping you would be able to help us, but I understand.”  Steve frowned at her, confused.  “I don’t know if she will, though,” Sharon added, looking passed him._

_He turned around to see Maria Hill walking up to them, sliding into the booth next to Sharon.  “Hello, Steve,” she said, picking up a menu._

_“Maria,” he replied, glancing between her and Sharon.  Sharon looked almost apologetic, smiling self-effacingly at him.  “What do you want?”_

_“I want the best soldier in history to help me track down and eradicate HYDRA threats,” she said matter-of-factly._

_“There’s something I need to do first,” he told her, just as he’d told Fury._

_She looked up at him, her expression making it clear how she had risen so high in the ranks of SHIELD.  “You don’t have to track him down alone.  We can help.”_

_Steve glanced over at Sam, then back at Maria.  It would be good to have some more resources.  Bucky had been trained not to be found, after all.  And SHIELD agents were trained to find what couldn’t be found.  He considered the unhealed wounds he carried that might adversely affect the mission, and tried not to let it feel like betrayal to consider putting off finding his friend a little longer._

_“Okay,” he said at last.  “What do you need me to do?”_

_She smiled briefly.  “D.C. isn’t safe.  We’re too closely watched.  Go to New York, to Avengers Tower.  Stark will let you in, I’m sure.  We’ll contact you there.”  When he nodded, she got to her feet and left the diner as quietly as she’d entered._

_Steve looked at Sharon, who smiled faintly.  “I look forward to working with you, Captain Rogers,” she said formally._

_He glanced at Sam again, who had watched the whole exchange silently.  “How about some coffee before we go?” he asked._

_“Sure,” she replied, smile broadening._

 

            In the end, Steve supposed, it had worked out that he’d gone to New York.  Sam had suggested it, anyway, so the two of them had continued to search for Bucky as best they could between missions from Hill.  Sam still lived and worked in D.C., though, so he went home when Steve was busy.  It was great to have him back.  Steve had a feeling that Bucky would need someone to talk to, and he didn’t know if he was the best one for the job.  He had a lot of hopes for his friend, and didn’t want to pressure him.

            Sighing, Steve got to his feet.  Sleep wasn’t going to come.  He could get by on significantly less sleep than most people, but that wasn’t his preference.  He wandered around his floor of the Tower, thinking idly how nice it was for Tony to have set this whole thing aside for him.  The others had their own floors, too.  It was midafternoon.  He was hungry again.  Sam’s door was open and he wasn’t there.  He knocked on Bucky’s.

            “James?  You hungry?” he asked.  There was no answer.  Frowning, he tried the door.  It was unlocked.  The room was empty.  He set his jaw, staring into the room as though it would make Bucky appear.  “JARVIS?” he asked, tentatively.  He’d never get used to this.

            “Yes, sir?” the AI replied.

            “Where’s Bucky?”

            “Mr. Barnes and Ms. Romanov went down to the motor pool eighty-three minutes ago.  They left the premises.”

            Steve cursed quietly.  What was she doing with him?  He wasn’t exactly comfortable being out in the world.  He trusted Nat with his life, but not, apparently, with Bucky’s.  He’d better suit up.


	7. Don't Look Away

 

            The drive takes a while.  She tells him where they are going: Middletown.  It isn’t far, only a couple of hours drive, depending on traffic.  He doesn’t remember it from … before, and had no reason to know any American geography after.  She is silent during the drive and he dozes off.  When he wakes, he is surprised to have had no memories return, to have awoken quietly, and to have slept before a mission.  He looks at her quizzically, wondering if she had something to do with it.

            _It had been forty-seven hours since he was sent out.  His men were alternating the watch, sleeping when they could.  He didn’t sleep; he hadn’t slept on the trip here and he wouldn’t sleep now.  He watched the house across the street intently, poised and ready._

            “Almost there, Barnes.  Enjoy your nap?” she asks, a smile tugging at her lips.

            He doesn’t reply, sitting up in his seat to get a better look outside.  Forest lines the road on both sides.  The road has two lanes and comparatively few other vehicles.  The sun is still high overhead; it is a little after four in the afternoon.  He frowns.  Why are they here?  Who is she, again?  Natasha.  They are looking for HYDRA agents.  She didn’t say why, but he can guess.  She likely has similar reasons for wanting them destroyed.

            “Do you remember me?” she asks suddenly.

            He frowns.  What does she mean?  “Yes.”

“What do you remember?” she pressed.

“We fought.  You tried to strangle me, and short circuited my arm.  I shot you before Steve came,” he says slowly, concentrating.  “Then… you fired a grenade at me.”

            She glances at him.  “Anything else?”

            Some vague feelings pass through him, the memory of a car, a motorbike, an empty road, and a cliff.  No other memories come.  “Nope,” he replies.

            “You’ve shot me more than once,” she says calmly.

            “Sorry,” he mumbles, staring at his hands, shoulders hunched.

            “It was the job,” she replies.  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.” 

            He doesn’t know what to say to that.  He doesn’t know her history, or even his own.  He doubts hers can compare with his, though.  He’s been doing things he’d rather not think about for seventy years, apparently.  How much of those decades he was awake he doesn’t know.  Maybe no one knows.  It feels like something that should matter to him, but it doesn’t.  He stretches his legs out in front of him, wishing he was asleep again.

            “You with me, Barnes?” she asks, clearing her throat.

            “Probably,” he replies.

            “You’re not going to go all catatonic if seeing this guy brings back memories, right?”  They have slowed and she is parking on the street.  She turns around to back up, and pauses, meeting his eye, as she asks the question.  He shrugs, meeting her mocking gaze with his own, emotionless one.  “Well, I guess we’ll do our best,” she says, looking away quickly, and turns the vehicle off. 

            _His fingers wrap around the fractured metal of the door, fitting easily between it and the body of the vehicle.  He shifts his weight only slightly before ripping it off its hinges._

He slowly follows her out of the car and down the street.  They are downtown, and shops line either side of the road.  She ducks down an alley.  There are people around, but none seem to notice him.  If they do, they look away quickly.  No one pays any attention when he slips down the alley after her.  She strides forward, clearly knowing where she is going, her footsteps barely making a sound.  His boots are more noticeable, but he doesn’t care.

She stops at a doorway, partially hidden by some dumpsters.  She turns and looks back at him, acting casual, but he can see the way she tenses, ready for a fight.  “I don’t know what we’re going to find in here,” she says softly when he stops a few feet away.  “Ready?”

S _teve looks at him, not speaking, waiting.  He nods in answer to the unspoken question._

            He gives her a withering look and she smiles grimly.  She pulls on the door, but it is, unsurprisingly, locked.  It opens outward and would be difficult to kick down.  She reaches for her lock picking tools, but he steps around her and wrenches it open easily with his left hand, careful not to rip it free of the frame entirely.

            “And they say chivalry is dead,” she says sardonically.

            He doesn’t answer.  Inside the door is a dark hallway, with paint peeling and the sound of water dripping echoing off the walls.  He listens, but can hear no other sound.  He glances at her.  She shrugs.  He stoops, pulls his knife out of his boot, rises, and starts forward in one fluid motion.  He can feel her following, and must remind himself that this should not cause him stress, even though he has only one weapon besides his arm.  She is not a threat.  This may be a trap, but he has never been caught before.  And it has been a while since his last fight; he doesn’t like being idle.

            The hallway turns out to be about thirty feet long.  There are only three doors, two on the left and one on the right, in its length.  Natasha does not indicate that they should stop at any of them.  At the end of the corridor is another door.  It looks normal enough in the darkness, but has a more solid quality about it than the others.  He touches it and is not surprised to find that it is metal, not wood, and is set in an air-tight seal. 

            “Dead end?” she asks, teasing, maybe.

            “I can break it down,” he replies, cocking his head as he assesses it.

            “I knew I brought you along for some reason.”

            He steps back, turning away from the door, then swings back with his left arm, striking close to the locking mechanism.  A significant dent is made.  The sound is briefly deafening.  He swings again, with similar results.  He backs up several paces, then kicks the weakened area with some momentum behind him.  The door flies open.  He presses himself back against the wall behind him as shots ring out from inside the room.  She does the same after a beat.

            “No more grenades?” she asks.

            He shakes his head, leaning forward to look through the door carefully.  He throws his knife expertly and the shooting stops.  He resists smiling when he sees the shocked admiration that flashes, briefly, on her face, and enters the room.  It is larger than he expected, fifty feet by sixty, with rows of computers and other technological apparatuses every few feet.  There is only one man inside, the one with sandy hair who was vaguely familiar.  He isn’t dead; the knife is through his arm, pinning it to the concrete wall behind him.  It’s bleeding quite a bit, but would take hours to bleed out.

            He walks over to him, kicking his gun away.  He had been trying to reach it with his left hand, just slightly beyond his fingertips.  He pulls his knife out of the wall, and the arm, and wipes it placidly on the man’s sleeve, above where the blood stains it.  The man looks up at him, panic clearly written on his face, then at Natasha, who stands a few feet back, hands on her hips.

            “Hello,” she says, her voice gentle.

            “Are you here to kill me?” the man gasps out.

            “I’m not,” she replies.

            The man scrambles backwards, though there isn’t anywhere to go, and looks up at the soldier in terror.  “He is?” he breathes.

            “Not if you play nice,” she informs him.

            “Wh-what do you want?”

            She motions to the room at large.  “Everything you’ve got.  Stand up.”

            The man does as he’s told, holding his wounded arm close to his chest, back pressed against the wall.  “Then they’ll kill me,” he says, resolution tinging the fear in his voice.

            He doesn’t know or care what all of this is.  But something about the man is familiar.  Something…  Vague recollections pass through is mind, but are hard to pin down.  Something painful, something unpleasant.  Something with this man.  He reaches out with his left arm and grasps the man’s throat, pushing him upward until his feet were no longer on the ground.  “ _I_ will kill you,” he corrects calmly as his fingers tighten and the man’s gasps become less productive.

            “Barnes,” she says, a warning in her tone.  She’s stays out of his reach, though.  He turns to look at her and she holds her ground, but he can see her grow tense.  A musical noise suddenly echoes through the room.  He releases his grip slightly, to delay the impending unconsciousness, as she pulls a device out of her pocket, pressing it to her ear.  “Hey, Rogers.  What’s up?”  She smiles as she listens to what sounds like a tirade coming on the other end.  “Look, we’re a little busy.  Can we talk later?”  The sounds Steve is making continue unabated.  “Fine, fine, chew me out then.”  She hangs up, smiles at him sweetly.  “So, Steve noticed you were gone.  We should go.”  He glances from her to the nearly-unconscious man he is choking.  “Bring him.  He’ll be useful.”

            He releases his grip entirely and the man drops to the floor with a thud.  She winces, then walks over to the nearest computer, inserting something into it.  He waits patiently while she types something on the keyboard, then removes the device after a few minutes.  “Need any help?” she asks, motioning toward the other man, lying in a heap.  He reaches down and grabs him by his collar, and starts dragging him toward the hallway they came down.  “I’ll take that as a no,” she teases, following them.


	8. All I Do Is Damage

 

            Steve drove one of the cars from the motor pool toward a former SHIELD academy about forty-five minutes northwest of the City.  He didn’t take his motorcycle, in case he needed to give Bucky a ride back.  He didn’t know what Natasha was doing.  He was frustrated with her.  Bucky wasn’t ready to be back out in the world.  He was volatile and exhausted.  He needed to rest, not go on mysterious adventures with the Black Widow after a sleepless night.

            Bucky was improving, certainly, but he couldn’t keep himself from worrying.  Steve had always been reckless, always throwing himself into dangerous situations with little care for his own safety.  “Sometimes I think you like getting punched,” Bucky had told him the night before he’d shipped out.  It wasn’t exactly true, but it was close.  He did like to be in the fray.  It was why he’d always blamed himself for Bucky’s death; why he now blamed himself for the much worse fate that had befallen his friend.  The mission to capture Zola had been reckless; he could have made it safer.  He should have.  It shouldn’t have just been him and Bucky.  If he’d brought along someone else, Bucky might have survived.  They might have captured Zola faster, maybe had more time to defeat Schmidt.  And then maybe he wouldn’t have been frozen in ice for seventy years.

            This was pointless.  What had happened was in the past.  He couldn’t go back.  He could only try harder now, be safer, help his friend.  Bucky had been made into the Winter Soldier, and might never be Bucky again.  But he owed it to him to help him, however he could.  So maybe Natasha was right.  Maybe having a job to do was what he needed.  Steve had certainly benefited from having something to do after he was awoken.

            He reminded himself that Natasha was, after all, also a former assassin and might be familiar with what Bucky was going through.  He’d been quick enough to trust Sam with his friend, and he certainly believed Natasha wanted to do the right thing.  It was just galling to have to leave Bucky’s recovery up to someone else.  He felt he owed his friend more than that.  But maybe between his own experiences and Natasha’s, they could effectively put themselves in Bucky’s shoes.

            The academy was empty, so it was easy to find Natasha’s car.  Well, the one she borrowed, anyway.  He didn’t know if she actually had her own.  She appropriated things for herself so naturally that even the original owner wouldn’t take notice.  She was sitting on the hood of the car, as comfortable as she always seemed to be.  Bucky was standing like a soldier a little ways away, feet spread, arms loose at his sides, back straight.

            “Hey, Rogers,” Natasha said as he parked and got out of the car. 

            He glanced at Bucky, trying to assess how he was doing.  His face was devoid of expression as he met Steve’s eye.  “Nat, what were you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice calm.

            She smiled and walked around to the trunk of her vehicle.  “Fetching this.”  She opened it and he was mildly surprised to see a man curled up back there.  He was relieved to see he was breathing, though faintly.

            “Why?” he asked, at a loss.

            She glanced at Bucky, who was watching them impassively.  “Because of what he used to do for HYDRA.”

            He nodded quickly, a sudden understanding of Bucky’s cold behavior hitting him.  “Why did you want to bring him here?”

            She shook her head.  “Not him.  This.”  She held up a flash drive.  “We may need him to access some of it, but this place has the best tech for decryption.  And I didn’t want to be bothered,” she added.

            “Okay.”  Steve shifted his weight, glancing between the three other people hesitantly.  “Should we head in?”

            “Break in.  Yeah, let’s go,” she said, and started forward. 

Steve looked at Bucky, who had been motionless except for his eyes during the whole exchange.  When Natasha started moving, he did, too, walking over to the trunk of the car and pulling the man out roughly with his metal arm.  He swung him over his shoulder placidly, and followed Natasha.  His body language didn’t make it seem like he was following someone, though.  Steve brought up the rear, glancing around to make sure they weren’t noticed.

The parking lot was large and it took several minutes to cross it.  Steve watched Bucky marching in front of him, somewhat surprised that he carried their prisoner so effortlessly.  His shoulders were set, but the one he’d dislocated didn’t seem to be bothering him.  He moved easily, and Steve supposed he was more comfortable doing this than anything else he’d done since he’d appeared in Steve’s room.

The doors of the building were glass.  They were locked.  Natasha was picking the lock when he caught up, Bucky standing silently a yard or so from her.  When she’d gotten the door open, she motioned for them to stay where they were, and moved stealthily inside.  She walked to a box on the far wall and typed something into the keypad there.  It took her a few tries, but then she turned and, smiling, waved them in.  Steve let Bucky go in first with his burden.

As soon as they were inside the door, Bucky dropped the man dismissively onto the tile floor with a thud.  Natasha set off down a hallway, clearly knowing where she was going.  They were in a large open space, mostly empty except for a SHIELD sign and a plaque on the far wall.  Steve followed Natasha to a computer lab four doors down on the left.  Bucky stayed behind, standing over the prisoner.

“I don’t think we’ll need him,” Natasha said as he entered, already leaning over a console and typing quickly.

“What are we going to do with him?” Steve asked.

She shrugged.  “Hill will probably want to question him.”  She glanced at the door hesitantly, and Steve wondered what she knew about the prisoner that he, and apparently Bucky, didn’t.

“Who is he?” he asked, frowning and shifting his weight uncomfortably.

Sighing, she turned to face him.  “I thought I gave you a file on this.”

“What’s his name?”  Steve knew every name in the file.

“George Porter.”

His frown deepened.  It was familiar, but he couldn’t remember what he’d done.  Something recent, obviously; the man couldn’t be older than forty.  “Should we have not left Bucky alone with him?”

She laughed grimly.  “If he remembers him, I don’t think we’ll be able to stop how he reacts to that kind of memory.”

“Do you need me here?” he asked, staring intently at the door, listening.

“No, Rogers, you invited yourself.  The soldier and I had this taken care of,” she said dismissively, turning attention back to the screen in front of her.

He watched the rapidly changing images on the monitor a moment longer, then turned and walked out of the room.  There was only silence echoing off of the cold tile, now joined by his footsteps.  He reached the large room at the end of the hallway and froze, dismayed to find it empty.  At least, by the door, where he initially looked.  After a brief scan of the room, he saw the prisoner, Porter, laying in a heap on the floor by a plaque.

He rushed over, thinking of what Natasha had said, and was relieved to find the man in much the same state he had been before.  He looked around, searching for some clue of what happened to his friend.  His first instinct was to call for Natasha, but he resisted.  He didn’t know if Bucky was still around, if her presence might affect that.  Something caught his eye as he looked hastily around the large room.

The plaque was dedicated to SHIELD agents who had died in action.  The Wall of Valor.  It was stone, with names carved into it.  One of them had, recently, been scraped out.  Probably by metal fingers, for the scratches were deep.  He could barely make out the familiar letters, but he knew what it had said: Bucky Barnes.  Steve felt the air go out of him like he’d been punched.  He looked out into the parking lot and was disappointed, but not surprised to find that one of the vehicles was gone.


	9. It's Destroying Me

 

            He waits patiently in the open space, standing by the door.  Steve and Natasha have disappeared down the hallway.  He is uninterested in what they might be doing.  He sees the way Natasha looks at him and the man they kidnapped, the looks she gives Steve, and does not wish to remember what the connection is.  Standing near the window is warm.  He glances down at the man, the prisoner, and decides to get him out of the sun.  He is not particularly familiar with keeping unconscious people from having their condition worsen.

            There is a stone tablet standing before the wall to the left.  He walks over to it, dragging the man by the collar behind him, who stirs but doesn’t wake.  He drops him and looks idly at the names on what is apparently the Wall of Valor.  None of them ring any bells; he doesn’t expect them to.  He’s just passing time.  Until he sees one that does.  His body grows stiff as he sees “Bucky Barnes” written there.  The world blurs and he clenches his jaw and tenses his body to stay upright, the name the only clear thing in his vision.

            He is familiar with war memorials.  He knows what kinds of names these are.  He knows his name shouldn’t be included.  He didn’t die with valor, with honor.  He fell and went on to serve the enemy far better than anyone else could.  These people, listed beside him, are good people, good agents, good soldiers.  They served their country and died defending it.  He doesn’t fit.  He doesn’t fit anywhere.

            He reaches almost automatically with his metal hand, touching the name, first gently, hesitantly, then he presses harder and digs his fingers into the stone until the name is gone.  It takes a few moments.  When it is done, he steps back unsteadily.  He glances down the hallway where Steve had gone, then back outside.  He considers briefly, looking down at the man in front of him, then walks away.

 

            He is driving.  He doesn’t know where he is going; it doesn’t matter.  He wishes he had his mask still.  But, no, it had been broken during the first fight with Steve and had not been replaced.  Why hadn’t it been replaced?  Did they no longer care about keeping him anonymous, keeping him a ghost story?  Maybe not.  It was likely, from what little he’d learned about the helicarriers, that they didn’t think they’d need him anymore.  Was he a target?  If so…  Then Steve had saved his life.  Again.

            Saved it for what?  He thinks bitterly.  Sam was right; Steve was stubborn and so was he.  Steve had such faith in people; he would only be disappointed if he found out how he was feeling.  How seeing his name on that wall made it feel like the world was twisted and crumbling.  Steve was a hero.  There was a museum dedicated to him from his exploits during the war and from after he’d woken up in the ice.

            There was an exhibit dedicated to Bucky Barnes, but not to him.  Bucky had died, had sacrificed himself for his country, for Steve.  And Bucky is gone.  He may remember things from Bucky’s life, but that isn’t who he is anymore.  He isn’t a hero.  He isn’t even a veteran.  He is a soldier, but not the kind people talk about with anything but fear in their voices. The way the man he’d captured look at him…  It was pure, raw terror.  He had undoubtedly recognized him.  He’d expected to be killed, and not pleasantly.

            He had killed a lot of people.  He knows that.  He doesn’t think any of the deaths were particularly cruel.  The ones he remembers were efficient; that’s what he was trained for above all else.  Invisible, untraceable, efficient.  He hadn’t interrogated anyone.  He hadn’t tortured anyone.  He ended it quickly, often before a target was even aware of his presence, and disappeared before any survivors could find him. 

            Was Bucky an efficient killer?  He has few memories of Bucky in battle, though he knows he was always a good marksman.  People loved Bucky; not just Steve.  No one loved the Winter Soldier.  Even those tasked with his care were always on edge, afraid, when he was around.  Because he was a machine.  Is he any less of one now?

            He realizes he doesn’t know where he is.  He pulls the car over onto the side of the road, and leans forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.  He doesn’t break, but some part of him contemplates the idea.  The emotions filling him are too much.  He struggles to remain silent.  To relieve some of the tension, he punches the dashboard with his right hand.  It hurts.  He sits back, running his fingers through his long hair, sighing deeply.  He pulls back onto the highway.

 

            Eventually, he reaches Avengers Tower again.  He has contemplated where else he might go.  There are options.  He doesn’t have to return to this place, to no doubt be fussed over by Steve when he returns.  As much as he hates the idea, he knows what will be best.  If he is alone, out there, he will lose more of who he is than he already has.  Steve might not know him anymore, might be mistaken about him, but he certainly treats him like a person.  So does everyone he’s met here so far.  To hide out there would mean being anonymous, a ghost, and he is tired of that.

            Getting into the parking garage requires going through some mechanized security checkpoints.  He is let through without question, which sets him on edge.  He parks the vehicle, the one Natasha had taken, back where it was.  Then he walks to the elevator and rides it silently to Steve’s floor.  He doesn’t see anyone else, which is a relief.  He goes to what is now his bedroom, and sits on the floor in front of the window.

            The window looks out at the skyline of the city.  There are no buildings nearby as high as this one, so he can see pretty far.  He pulls his knees up against his chest, wrapping his arms around them, leaning against his bed, and watches the sun dipping toward the horizon.  Some birds fly by, almost striking the glass.  He is unaffected, motionless, thinking. 

 

            _He was walking down the street, home from school.  Steve wasn’t at school today, and he’s carrying his books home so he can catch up.  He knew that Mrs. Rogers was working a lot lately.  There wasn’t an answer when he knocked, though he’d done it lightly, in case Steve was asleep.  He picked up the brick from the ground and pulled out the key, letting himself in._

_“Hey, Steve,” he called softly as he walked inside, setting Steve’s books on the end table near the door.  There was no answer.  He frowned, then walked quietly down the hall to Steve’s room.  He was inside, asleep.  He looked terrible._

_Returning to the kitchen, he made some soup with what was food was left over.  It wouldn’t be very good soup, but he figured the warm broth would do Steve some good.  When it was hot, he poured himself and Steve a bowl, and carried them carefully to his friend’s room._

_“Rise and shine,” he said as he pushed the door open wider with his foot._

_Steve blinked owlishly at him.  “Bucky?  What are you doing here?”_

_“Having dinner,” he replied, stretching out his arm to offer the bowl._

_“Yeah?  You desperately wanted some left-over stew?” Steve asked sarcastically, but his eyes lit up at the sight of food._

_“I did.  You have much better left-overs here than at my house.”  He settled down on the floor a few feet from the bed, facing Steve, and began to eat with relish._

_Steve smiled, shaking his head.  “If you say so.”_

_“I do.”  They ate in silence for a few minutes.  He applied himself to his meal and forced himself to pay no attention to Steve.  “I brought your schoolwork,” he said when he finished his portion._

_“Oh, great.  That will make me feel much better,” Steve answered, making a face._

_He laughed.  “What, did you want to just sleep all day and night?”_

_“Yes.  That sounds like a great idea.”_

_“Your mother would never forgive me if I let you fall behind,” he told his friend sympathetically._

_“You mean_ your _mother.  Mine’s a little too worried about other things,” Steve said, looking away._

_He could tell he’d stumbled onto something that bothered his friend.  He waited, to see if he would explain himself.  Steve was moving his spoon slowly around the bowl, not eating.  He sighed.  “Like what?”_

_Steve shrugged.  “Things are rough all over.  I can’t complain.”_

_“You can always complain to me.”_

_“Yeah?”  Steve looked up, surprised._

_“Now, I mean, I won’t be particularly interested, but sure,” he shrugged, keeping a straight face._

_Steve laughed, but it turned into a cough.  “You’re a jerk.”_

_“Punk,” he replied with equanimity._

_“Okay, I’m done eating, Mom.  Where are these books I’m supposed to learn from?” Steve said, putting his bowl on his nightstand._

_He got to his feet languidly and took both bowls back to the kitchen, then returned with the schoolbooks.  “Have fun,” he said, handing them to Steve and turning to go._

_“Wait.”  The request was quiet, almost as if he didn’t really want to be heard._

_“Steve, I already did my work.  You want me to just sit here and watch you do yours?”_

_“I don’t have to do it right now.”  Sick as he was, Steve was still so stubborn._

_“Fine,” he said, sighing as he sat back down.  Steve settled back against his pillows, watching him.  “How about some cards?” he suggested._


	10. I'm Sick of the Misery

 

            “Natasha, we have to go,” Steve said to her urgently, pushing open the door to the computer lab.

            “Why?” she asked, annoyed.  “I’m almost done.  You can take the other car if you’re in a hurry.”

            “No, I can’t,” he replied.

            She finally looked up at him.  “He took it?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Don’t worry, Steve.  We’ll find him,” she assured him, unplugging the flash drive and leaving the console.  He moved aside and allowed her to lead the way down the hall.

            “He saw his name,” he told her, the guilt he felt evident in his voice.

            “What?  Where?” she asked, glancing back at him.

            He pointed as they reached the end of the corridor.  “On the Wall of Valor.”

            She stopped dead in her tracks and he almost ran into her.  “His name was on there?”  He nodded, surprised.  “Okay, I don’t know how he’ll react, but I know how I would.”

            “What would you do?”

            “Disappear.”  She strode forward again, toward the unconscious man on the floor.  “Bring him.  We can take him in and go back to the Tower.  Then maybe Tony will have something that can help us track him down.”

            He bent and picked up the prisoner, throwing him over his shoulder.  “You think so?” he asked doubtfully.

            She sighed.  “I don’t know, Steve.  If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

            He clenched his jaw and nodded.  They walked out to the car and he placed his burden, a little roughly, in the back seat, then climbed into the passenger seat.  Natasha drove.  He was glad, because he would have been unable to focus on the road.  Bucky had scraped his name off of the Wall.  Why?  He supposed it was because he didn’t think he deserved it.  Because the memories of what he’d been doing for the last seventy years were returning.

            Steve thought of when Bucky had remembered his mission involving Howard Stark: how feral and otherworldly he’d looked in the darkness, his blue eyes looking icy and distant.  He didn’t look anything like Bucky in that moment.  He was clearly the Soldier, the ghost story.  At least, he was when Steve came in.  Then it was worse, because he was more Bucky but a version of his friend he’d never seen before.  All that had happened to him, all that was still happening to him, was obvious in his face.  Bucky was always stubborn, always pragmatic.  He still was, but where before it had been used to serve his country, and Captain America.  Now…  He could see his friend struggling to deal with what the Soldier had done.  He had no idea how to help him.

            He was brought out of his thoughts by Natasha parking the car. They were in a parking garage.  He didn’t know where they were, and struggled to bring himself back to the task at hand.

            “Can you grab him?” Natasha asked, climbing out of the vehicle.

            “Yeah, sure,” he replied, following suit.  He opened the back door and looked down at the man, wondering if they should be concerned that he was still unconscious.  It had to have been over an hour, maybe up to three.  He checked his pulse, then swung him over his shoulder.  He was alive, anyway.  Steve didn’t know how good a resource he would be, though.

            Natasha led the way into the building.  The only entrance was an elevator.  They waited in silence while it carried them to the fifth floor.  He thought back to what seemed ages ago, when he’d ridden on the elevator with Nick Fury down to see Project Insight.  The idea still made his skin crawl.  There was no way to know if the algorithm had been destroyed along with everything else.  He wondered if anyone else had considered that, and shifted his weight uncomfortably.

            “You okay, Rogers?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the display showing the changing floor numbers.

            “I was just thinking about the Insight algorithm.  Do you think we got rid of it?”

            She shrugged, glancing at him briefly.  “I think it’s pretty hard to get rid of something completely these days.”

            He nodded quickly in affirmation, his jaw set grimly.  The doors opened and they exited the elevator.  They were in a long, white hallway with doors every fifteen feet on either side.  The fluorescent lights were harsh where they reflected off the pale surfaces.  Natasha continued to lead the way and he shifted the position of the prisoner before he followed.  She walked down to the third door on the right and opened it.

            “Put him in here,” she said, motioning.

            The room inside was clearly a cell.  It was clean and white, but there was no mistaking its purpose.  He carried the man to the cot in the corner and left him there.  When he was out of the room, Natasha pulled the door shut and turned the bolt, before turning back to the elevator.

            “Don’t you think we should get him a doctor or something?” Steve asked, glancing back at the cell uncertainly.

            “Did you want to carry him all over the building?” she called back, not slowing down.

            He shrugged and caught up with her.  They got on the elevator again, this time to the tenth floor, which was the top of the building.  When the doors opened, they stepped out into one large room.  There were a few rows of desks, filing cabinets around the outside of the room, and a long table at the other end of the room.  Maria Hill was the only one in the room, standing over the table and leafing through papers.

            “Hello, Cap, Natasha,” she said, without looking up.  “What can I do for you?”

            “We brought someone in,” Natasha answered.

            “Where?”

            “Room 531.”

            Hill leaned forward and pressed a button on the console to her left.  “Who?”

            “George Porter,” Steve said.

            She looked up sharply, her gaze flicking between the two of them.  “You found him?” she addressed Natasha, her lips pressing together.

            “With some help,” Natasha responded, sitting halfway on the table, meeting Hill’s eye.  Steve stood nearby, assessing their expressions.

            “Who?”  Hill stood up, looking down at Natasha, strain on her face.

            Natasha turned to Steve, and watched him expectantly.  Hill turned to face him, too.  “Steve?” she prompted.

            “Bucky,” he said quietly.

            Hill pulled up a chair and sat down heavily.  “Barnes?  Why wasn’t I informed?”

            He held her gaze calmly.  “He isn’t ready.”

            “I’ll have to tell the Director,” she told him regretfully.

            “Do what you have to,” he replied.

            She sighed.  “We wanted to help you find him.”

            “We may have lost him,” Natasha said suddenly.  They both turned to look at her.  “So we might still need some assistance.”

            “You lost him?” Hill repeated slowly.

            “He saw his name on the Wall of Valor.  And ran,” Steve explained.

            “I see.”  Hill stood up and looked between the two of them.  “Well, let me know what I can do.  I’ll tell you if Porter says anything important.”


	11. I Am Human Debris

 

            Time passes slowly.  The sun sets.  He doesn’t move.  He is aware that he was somewhere else for a while, but he’s back now.  The memory that came was not an unpleasant one.  He was taking care of Steve.  He waits.  He wonders what Steve thought when he noticed him missing.  He wonders if he saw what he’d done to the Wall of Valor.  He considers whether he was justified in crossing out the name.  Bucky was a hero.  It’s not Bucky’s fault his body was used for such evil after he died.

            He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his knees.  His neck relaxes for the first time in hours, and it is a relief.  He folds his arms more tightly so no light reaches his closed eyelids.  The metal of his arm is cold against his cheek.  It’s always cold.  It needs to be.  He sighs slowly, watching in the dim light as his breath briefly causes the shiny surface of his arm to fog up.  He leans his head back against the bed frame again, staring out the window.  The last rays of sunshine disappear behind the horizon, and the room becomes soft blue and violet.

            There is a knock at the door suddenly, causing him to jump to his feet in a defensive stance facing the source of the sound.  He forces his jaw to unclench and his muscles to relax, though his breathing is still labored.  He walks to the door and opens it.  He is surprised to find Sam standing there.

            “Hey, I got a text from Steve.  You okay, man?” he asks.

            “Yes.”

            Sam can tell he is lying.  He wishes his body was not betraying him by being so alarmed by the interruption.  Sam smiles at him, and he expects the pitying look to come, but it doesn’t.  The smile is genuine.  He shifts his weight from foot to foot in discomfort.  “You hungry?  I can whip up something,” Sam offers.

            He considers.  If he wants to eat, he will no doubt have to endure questions from Sam.  And then Steve, whenever he gets back.  He wishes for an excuse to avoid that, and longs to be asleep again.  He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.  “No,” he says and starts to close the door.

            “Hang on a sec, James,” Sam says, and the soldier stops.  “Can I tell Steve you’re here?”  He hesitates, cocking his head.  “He’s pretty worried about you.”

            “Fine,” he replies, and closes the door before Sam can interject again.

            “Let me know if you change your mind!” Sam calls through the door and he resists the urge to punch something.

            Forcing himself to stay calm, he goes back to where he had been sitting.  He finds it is impossible to get comfortable again.  Sighing, he climbs onto the bed and leans against the wall, still dressed from the mission.  He doesn’t want to sleep.  He isn’t going to sleep.  Things will come back if he goes to sleep, so he won’t.  He will just wait.  He will not close his eyes.  He isn’t that tired.  He can stay awake.

 

_He was marching through the snow, his team arrayed behind him.  There was a light up ahead, presumably the home of his target.  They moved stealthily forward, pausing behind trees as they went.  It was unwise to have such thick woods so close to the house.  There was a clearing that stretched about fifteen feet from the building.  When they reached it, he motioned for the others to stop, and they took cover.  He didn’t.  He stood at the edge of the tree line, unconcerned, and assessed the task ahead._

_Yellow light spilled out of two of the upstairs windows, probably bedrooms, and one long window on the ground floor, presumably a living room of some kind.  He was motionless as he stared into the windows.  None had shades drawn to hide their contents.  There was a man, roughly six foot, two hundred pounds, late thirties, in the room on the ground floor, his attention on a flickering screen.  He seemed to be alone, though the window did not afford an adequate perspective for him to be sure.  In the upstairs rooms, there was a woman (five foot six, one hundred fifty pounds, early thirties) and child (roughly three feet in height, forty pounds, under ten) in one, and another child (four foot six, eighty pounds, about ten) in the other.  The woman was seated on the edge of the bed, which contained the child.  The other child was looking out the window._

_He didn’t move, waiting to see if the child would notice their presence.  He didn’t expect her to, but did not want to allow the family time to escape.  He had his orders.  He watched patiently until the child turned from the window and went to bed, turning the light off.  He strode forward, across the clearing and around to a door on the other side of the house from the occupied living room.  Getting the door open was no difficulty; he had been briefed and knew there wouldn’t be any kind of alarm.  Still, he kept silent so he could take care of what he needed to how it needed to be done._

_The door he opened was not a main entrance.  It opened onto a laundry room, which led him to the kitchen.  He moved quietly down the hallway and through the kitchen, pausing at the doorway leading to the living room.  He pressed himself against the wall and listened.  There were voices, but they came from the television the man was watching.  The man himself was silent, and didn’t appear to be moving.  He crouched low to reduce his profile and moved silently behind the couch on which the man sat.  Then he stood and reached down with his left hand to cover the man’s mouth and pull him backwards._

_The man struggled, unsurprisingly.  He tried to scream, but he tightened his grip on his face until he whimpered in pain.  He pulled the target onto his feet behind the couch, then pulled him up the stairs.  The man was focused on trying to escape his grasp; he didn’t take the opportunity to try to warn his family by making a lot of noise.  Not that it would have mattered._

_He stopped them in front of the first bedroom, the one containing only the child.  Using his right arm, he pulled out a silenced pistol and shot her.  It was quick and clean; she wouldn’t have felt it.  The target in his grasp was strongly affected, though, and it took some effort to maintain his grip.  He pulled roughly in the direction of the other room.  The target seemed more concerned about warning his family now, and was making a lot of noise._

_The door was locked when he reached it, sounds indicating that it was being barricaded.  He shifted his weight and kicked it hard, near the handle, and watched it splinter.  There were screams inside.  He kicked again, and whatever they had been pushing in front of the door was moved sufficiently to let him in.  He pulled the target in front of him, shifting his grip to be around the neck, and pushed him through first.  The woman was standing in front of her child, pointing a gun at him.  Her hands were trembling and he did not expect her aim to be any threat._

_He lifted his pistol and killed the child behind her in one shot.  She turned around and grabbed at the lifeless body, shrieking.  The target strained at his grip, crying out as best he could with the limited air supply._

_“HYDRA is disappointed, doctor,” he said quietly.  They both fell silent, staring at him in surprise.  Then they both started talking, frantically, at once.  He ignored them, surveying the room for what he needed.  There was only one chair.  He swung the man into it and bound him there with the rope from his belt.  The woman ran forward and beat on him with her fists as he worked.  When he was finished, he dragged her to the floor behind the chair, and bound her to the other side.  They begged and screamed at him, rocking the chair.  It wasn’t very sturdy; it wouldn’t hold for long.  He stepped back, surveying them.  He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly feeling unease._

_Footsteps could be heard behind him.  One of his team came up behind him.  “We need to go, sir,” he said urgently.  He glanced between the soldier and the two targets on the floor.  “Finish it.”_

_He took out a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it in their midst.  Then he turned and walked away, the explosion warming his back.  The other man had hurried away when he’d pulled out the grenade.  He followed him out of the building, aware that it was catching fire.  He hoped the targets were already dead, and not waiting to burn alive.  This wasn’t like his usual missions, he thought vaguely._

_His team surrounded him as they walked back to their vehicle.  He allowed himself to be loaded into it, a growing confusion filling him as they drove.  He became agitated.  The members of the team who were in the vehicle with him moved further away.  He clenched and unclenched his fists, grabbing the bench underneath him.  His metal fingers dented it deeply.  One of the men got on his radio, speaking in English, distress apparent in his voice._

_They arrived back at base.  The men climbed quickly out of the truck.  He didn’t move.  At some point, someone joined him.  The man in the suit.  He recognized him vaguely.  “Mission report,” he ordered._

_“Targets destroyed,” he replied impassively._

_“How?”_

_He closed his eyes.  “Two children each killed with one slug in the head.  Woman and man killed by grenade.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_He opened his eyes, staring at the other man, brow furrowed.  “Yes.”_

_The man sat back, regarding him.  “Did you deliver the message?”  He nodded silently, looking away.  “I see.  Would you rather not get that close to your targets?”  He shrugged.  “Or was it because they were children?”_

_“I…  I’d rather make it fast,” he said hesitantly._

_The man clapped him on the shoulder.  “That’s just fine.  We’ll make sure it is next time.  Now, come inside.”  He followed obediently._


	12. I Am Crashed and Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting yesterday - I must have been too busy celebrating pi day. But I'll post two chapters today!

 

            “I don’t know what he’s going through,” Steve said suddenly.  He was in the passenger seat; Natasha was driving them back to the Tower.

            “I think you have some idea.  I mean, you’re both from the forties and slept through the decades.  You’re both super soldiers.  That’s a pretty similar life experience,” she added, smiling.

            He snorted.  “I don’t think that last one for him was much like mine.”

            “Yeah?”

            “I _wanted_ to be one.  I wanted to go to war.  He didn’t.”

            “But he did go,” she said, glancing at him, prompting.

            “He was drafted.  He tried to explain that he was needed here, for his family.”  He sighed.  “For me.  But they needed men.”  He shrugged.  “We were going to enlist together, but they wouldn’t take me.”

            “You were able to serve together eventually, though.  For how long?”

            “Over a year with the Howling Commandos.  Until he fell.”

            “You both fell, Steve.”

            He sighed deeply.  “Yeah.”

            “More things you have in common,” she said, looking over at him again briefly.

            “I guess,” he answered, shrugging.  “It was too fast.”

            “Hmm?”

            “Bucky fell when we were going to capture Zola.  He gave us the information we needed to find Schmidt.  So it was only a couple of days before my plane went down.”

            “That’s rough, Steve,” she said quietly.  “Not much time to grieve before being flung into all of this,” she motioned to encompass the world at large.

            “Yeah, but it wasn’t so bad.  I was getting used to it.”

            “Was?”

            He smiled at her concern.  “Am.  If it had been someone else...  I’d probably be doing pretty good.”

            “So, you’re not doing good?  Did you call that nurse?”

            “Yeah, I did.  We’ve gone out a couple times.  But it’s hard to move on, to feel like I should be comfortable here.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because he’s not.  And it’s my fault.”

            They stopped at a stoplight.  She depressed the breaks a little faster than was necessary and looked at him intently.  “What they did to him was out of your control.  There was no way for you to know, or do anything about it.”

            He met her gaze.  “He joined the Commandos because of me.  He probably would have gone home otherwise.  Sure, he might have served another tour, but the worst that could have happened there is him being killed in action.”

            “You’d prefer him to be dead?”

            “Of course not.  But then none of this would have happened to him.”

            “You think they took him because of you?”

            “I don’t know.  But they knew who I was.  Zola and Schmidt.  They weren’t too happy to see me.  It wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

            The light was green.  A horn honked and she started forward again, staring fixedly ahead with a frown.  “You can’t blame yourself.  Evil will always try to break down what’s good.”

            He looked at her in surprise.  “I guess,” he said.  “I don’t think that will make him feel much better,” he muttered.

            She sighed.  “He’s going to feel a lot of guilt.  If you want to help him, give him a way to redeem himself.”

            “You’re right,” he conceded.  “That’s what you were doing today.”

            “Yeah, well, he’s really good at opening doors.  Saved me some time,” she replied with a smirk.

            He ran his fingers through his hair, leaning back against the headrest behind him.  “I wish it had been someone else.  Anyone else,” he said quietly.

            “If it had been someone else, do you think you would have survived the last mission?” she asked sharply.

            He considered.  “Maybe.”

            “Hell, you might not even have been successful in putting that last chip in if it hadn’t been your former best friend.”

            He frowned, thinking.  “He fought differently that time than on the highway.”

            “Did he?”  She glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow.

            “Yeah.  More like he was trying to stop me than trying to kill me.  He could have shot me somewhere more deadly if he wanted to.”  He paused, realization making his chest hurt.  “Bucky was always a great shot.”

            “So, because HYDRA weaponized your best friend, you were able to defeat them.  Pretty thoroughly, too.”  She shook her head.

            “You think these things happened for a reason?” he asked, surprised at this side of her.

            She snorted.  “No.  But you do.  I think it’s hubris.  Just be glad you got your friend back.  He needs a little work, but he’s still clearly your friend.”

            Steve closed his eyes, overcome.  His phone buzzed, and he blinked a few times before opening the device.  It was a text from Sam.  He let out a sigh of relief, taking with it a great deal of tension he’d been feeling.  “Sam says Bucky’s in the Tower.”

            “Good,” she said, eyes still fixed ahead as she turned down the familiar street.

            He looked at her, thinking.  “Would you?”

            “Would I what?”

            “Have gone back to the Tower, if you were in his shoes.”

            “I don’t know, Steve.  I never had someone from my past interested in my future.  But I’m not surprised.”

            “Why not?”

            “Where else would he go?  He already chose to stay with you when he could have run.”

            Steve considered that.  “More than once,” he reflected.

            She was pulling into the motor pool, parking.  She turned to look at him.  “Yeah?”

            He nodded.  “When I went to find the 107th during the war, he wouldn’t leave without me, even when I told him to.  He didn’t leave the war when he could have, because I asked him to stay.  He didn’t let me drown when I fell from the helicarrier.”  He cleared his throat, frowning.  “Dr. Erskine said the serum would amplify whatever was already inside.  I don’t know if his was like mine, but…” he trailed off.

            “But he was always looking out for you,” she finished.

            “Yeah.”

            “Even when he didn’t know who you were.”

            “Pretty much.”


	13. I'm a Catastrophe

 

            He wakes violently, out of his bed and standing by the window before he is aware of what he is doing.  He is breathing hard, his muscles ache from tension.  He leans against the glass on his right side, pressing a cheek against the coolness.  It is dark outside.  The stars aren’t out yet.  He presses his right hand against the surface and focuses on the feeling.  Not on what was passing through his mind.  He wraps his left arm around his chest, grasping the cloth on the other side to anchor it.

_His fingers wrapped around the man’s wrist, bones breaking under his grasp, then swung him against the wall with enough force to cause him to lose consciousness._

            Eventually, his breathing slows.  Eventually, he can release his grip on both the window and his shirt.  Eventually, he sits down and removes his boots.  They are becoming uncomfortable.  He leans against the wall, stretching his legs out.  He stretches his arms above his head and suppresses a yawn.  Holding still is difficult.  He hasn’t held still without being frozen there for a long time.  The training sessions were always on his feet and fairly rigorous, unless it was language acquisition.  That usually occurred when he was injured and needed to keep still to heal.

_He was laying on his back, on a gurney.  He began to struggle and had to be restrained.  A man appeared above him, near his face, speaking to him calmingly in an unknown tongue._

            He climbs to his feet and pulls off his shirt.  There is no reason to waste this time.  Part of him aches to be asleep again, to be the Soldier again, so he could be unaware of all that has happened.  But that isn’t an option he’d be willing to accept.  Being more than a machine is a challenge, sure, but he hates the thought of losing more of himself.  He hates how much is already lost, and may not come back.

            He works hard to build muscle.  It is necessary, to keep the functionality of his prosthetic, for his shoulders to be strong.  The metal can absorb a great deal of stress, but it is still attached to flesh and blood.  There are scars all along where flesh meets metal, some caused by his overestimation of what the connections could take.  He isn’t sure exactly how it is connected; doesn’t want to know.  But he needs to stay active so he doesn’t injure himself.

_He ripped the door off of the vehicle, wincing as the torque makes itself felt in the flesh on his left side.  He ignored it, focusing on his target._

            Most of the other scars on his body are less noticeable.  He doesn’t know where many of them are from.  Quite a few are thin slits, caused by knives, most likely when he was training with these.  None, he is pretty sure, were caused by bullets.  A small number may have been caused by shrapnel.  He has been reckless with grenades from time to time.  His concern was always getting the job done, not worrying about minor wounds.

            Satisfied that he has made up for his days of idleness, he paces patiently around the room until his heartbeat has slowed to a resting rhythm.  He uses his shirt to wipe off sweat, lacking another option.  He stops and stares at it, thinking.  He has other options, he remembers suddenly.  He has a place where he can clean himself, whenever he wants.  The thought energizes him and he enters what is apparently his bathroom to take a shower.

            _The rain was pouring down around him.  He was soaked through.  It was cold and he could feel himself struggling to remain motionless.  But to move would be to fail the mission, so he remained still, watching._

            When he is done, he dresses in the loose pants he can wear for sleeping and a loose shirt.  He is hungry, he finds.  He wonders if Sam is still out there.  He pushes his hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ears, and leaves his room.  The corridor outside has a dim light to mark his path, but otherwise there is no sign of life around him.  He walks to the kitchen, enjoying the cool tile on his bare feet.  When was the last time he wasn’t wearing boots?

            He stands in front of the kitchen counter, thinking.  He doesn’t know if he remembers how to cook.  Did Bucky cook?  He must have.  The Winter Soldier didn’t.  Well, not food; there were plenty of missions involving fire.  He swallows and forces his mind to focus on the task at hand.  A sudden noise behind him causes him to reflexively drop to his knees behind the counter, out of anyone’s sight, and crouch, motionless as he listens.

            “I got us back here as soon as I could,” Natasha is saying in annoyance.  “I didn’t know Tony was going to accost us in the elevator.”

            “I know, I know,” Steve replies impatiently.

            He could hear knocking.  He supposes they are outside his door.  He stands up slowly, considering whether or not to seek a different hiding place.  At least for now.

            “Hey, James, you up?” Steve asks.  Natasha stands next to him, arms folded over her chest, most of her weight on her right leg.  She looks at ease, but is clearly ready for anything that may come out of his room.

            “Yes,” he says quietly.  They both turn to look in his direction, surprised.

            It is a few yards from his door to the kitchen.  Steve closes the distance quickly, Natasha less so.  The emotions flickering on Steve’s face are hard to look at.  Natasha is looking at him without pity, which is preferable.  He turns his gaze back to Steve, who stops on the other side of the counter in the center of the kitchen.

            “Did you make it back okay?” Steve asks.  It seems like he has other questions he would have preferred.

            “Yes,” he says again.

            “Are you hungry?” Steve asks, looking around the room as though just realizing where they are.

            “Yes,” he repeats, glancing at Natasha, who smiles.

            “Maybe you should try some different questioning tactics, Rogers,” she advises.  Steve looks at her in surprise, then smiles hesitantly, self-effacingly.  “Well, if you two fossils don’t need anything, I’m going to head downstairs.”

            “Yeah, that’s fine,” Steve replies.

            “Thanks for the help, Barnes,” she calls back as she walks back toward the elevator.

            He watches her go, then turns to Steve, who has been watching him.  “What?” he asks.

            Steve starts to answer, then stops.  “What do you want for dinner?”

            He shrugs, walking out of the kitchen to the window.  He looks out silently, jaw clenched.  He wants to close his eyes, but doesn’t, not sure what he’d see.  He can hear Steve doing something in the kitchen.  At length, he comes and stands next to the soldier.

            “I didn’t know where she was taking you,” Steve says quietly.

            “Me neither,” he replies emotionlessly.

            “You’re a hero.  Nothing can change that.”

            He turns to look at Steve, at Captain America.  How can he say such a thing?  “Nothing?” he asks harshly, his voice betraying his thoughts.

            “Nothing,” Steve affirms, brow furrowed, looking angry.  Angry at him?

            “Do you have any idea what I’ve done?”

            “I know what’s been done to you.”

            “That’s not the same.  I’ve killed a lot of people, Steve.  Some in very horrific ways,” he adds softly, turning his face away from his friend.

            “Bucky, that wasn’t you,” Steve begins, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder.

            Angry, he reaches out with his left hand and pushes Steve, hard, on the chest.  Steve is thrown back but recovers quickly.  His face shows his determination, and he wonders vaguely how he can be so stubborn all of the time.  Steve closes the distance between them, but doesn’t try to touch him again.

            “It _was_ me.  It was more me than Bucky is,” he snaps, frustrated.  Steve opens his mouth to reply, but he continues.  “I remember bits of things all the time.  I remember when I sleep.  I remember when I hold still for very long.  How many of those memories do you think are Bucky’s?  How many do you think are the Winter Soldier’s?” he snarls.

            “I don’t know,” Steve begins, but he cuts him off.

            “I’ll tell you.  I’m killing people.  In most of them, I’m destroying lives, sometimes with my bare hands.  Or I’m training to be better at killing people.  Even when I do remember things as Bucky, I tend to be killing people.  So don’t try to tell me that I’m some kind of blameless hero, who just suffered at the hands of fate.  They chose me because of what I was already capable of.  They didn’t make me a killer; they just made me better at it.”


	14. Take This Away, It Was Just A Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the positive feedback! One chapter left!

 

            Steve felt like he’d been punched in the gut.  Bucky was looking out the window, eyes burning with emotion, jaw set in defiance.  His friend’s whole body was tense, refusing to allow Steve to let him off the hook for the destruction he’d caused as the soldier.  He wouldn’t look at him.  Steve thought, unhappily, of other times when Bucky had stubbornly refused to listen.  It wasn’t so different this time.  His body language was the same.  Steve drew in a breath deeply; his chest hurt.

            “It was a war.  We all killed people,” he said quietly.  Bucky’s eyes met his briefly, then he returned his gaze outside. 

            “Not like this,” Bucky said flatly.

            Steve sighed.  He didn’t want to, but he turned away from his friend and returned to the kitchen.  He didn’t want their dinner to burn.  And maybe eating would improve Bucky’s mood.  Pot roast had always been Bucky’s favorite before, when they could get it.  Steve ate a lot of protein these days; he supposed Bucky did, too.  If he ate at all.  He plated the meal and sat down at the bar, putting the other plate next to him.  He glanced at Bucky, who hadn’t moved.  He started eating anyway.

            The chair next to him scraped back and Bucky reluctantly dropped into it.  He ate in a way that showed how hungry he had been.  Steve smiled at his plate, not turning to look at his friend.  It was nice to see that Bucky was still in there; he’d never let food go to waste.  Not that there was much opportunity for that to happen when they were kids.  They used everything they had for as long as they could.  People didn’t do that anymore.

            “Why’d you come back?” Steve asked suddenly.

            Bucky froze, tense for a moment, then put his fork down and turned to face him.  “When?”

            “Today.”

            He looked away.  “What else would I do?” he mumbled.

            “You can’t tell me you don’t have the capability of going on the run and not being found.”  No response.  Bucky didn’t even shift his weight.  “Of surviving out there where you don’t have to remember things or deal with your past,” Steve continued, watching him carefully.

            “Surviving?” Bucky turned slowly to look at him, his face blank.

            “Yeah.”

            “That’s what I’ve been doing for seventy years.  I wish I didn’t.  I wish I hadn’t survived the fall.  Then I’d be safely dead at the bottom of a cliff,” he replied without emotion, eyes focusing on what was left of his dinner.

            “Bucky…”  His jaw was set, he refused to acknowledge Steve.  He decided to try a different tactic to reach his friend.  “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened after, but your file wasn’t as informative as I’d have liked it to be,” Steve began gently.

            “My file?” Bucky interrupted, still motionless and tense.

            “Yeah, I have your file.  The Winter Soldier file,” he said, taken aback.  “I didn’t tell you?”

            “Where is it?”

            Steve got to his feet, slightly alarmed by the intensity of Bucky’s stare.  “In my room.  I’ll go get it.”  He walked down the hall, listening to see if Bucky would follow him.  There wasn’t a sound.  He couldn’t be sure he was still in the kitchen.  He had no doubt his friend could move silently if he wanted to.  The file was in his desk drawer.  He was a little surprised he hadn’t mentioned it earlier.  Of course, he hadn’t been sure that it would be beneficial for Bucky to read it.  He stood over his desk, hesitating, staring down into the drawer.

            “Steve.”  He glanced up, unsurprised to find Bucky standing in the doorway, looking ghostly with the light behind him.  Steve picked up the file and held it out.  Bucky took it in his metal hand, and turned away abruptly.  He watched him walk down the hallway to his room, kicking the door shut behind him.  Steve sighed, running his hand through his hair.  He tried to remember exactly what was contained and predict how Bucky might react to its contents.  He pulled out his phone.

            “Hey, Sam.  You still in town?” he asked when the call was answered, dropping heavily onto the couch.

            “Yeah, man, what’s up?”

            “I uh, I think it would be good for you to come by,” he said quietly, still watching Bucky’s door.

            “What happened?”

            “I gave him his file.”

            There was silence on the other end of the line.  Steve grimaced, then got to his feet to pace.  “Why?” Sam asked finally.

            “He said he wished he was ‘safely dead’ at the bottom of the ravine.  I was trying to get him to talk about what happened to him after that, to help him,” he explained, running a hand through his hair.

            “And you mentioned that you had a file about it.  What’s he doing now?”

            “I don’t know.  He went in his room.  I figure he’s reading it.”

            “How much detail does it go into?”

            Steve sighed impatiently.  “Quite a bit, especially toward the beginning.  The missions become more like lists as time goes on, but it describes what they did to him pretty thoroughly.”

            “Do you think he’ll be more affected by that or by what he’s done?”

            “I don’t know,” he muttered anxiously.

            “Okay.  Well, I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Sam promised.  “Keep an eye on him, but don’t put any pressure on him.  He needs to figure things out on his own a little.”

            “Thanks,” Steve replied and hung up.  He stared at the door for a few more minutes.  Light filtered out from under the door, and he could see shadows moving through it as Bucky did not keep still.  He was probably pacing while he read, too agitated to stay in one place.  Steve shook his head violently.  He didn’t want to think about it.  He would wait until Bucky came out, and then they could deal with however Bucky took the information.

            He turned away from the door and cleaned up the kitchen.  It was good to have something to do to keep himself occupied.  When the kitchen was done, he cleaned the living room.  But soon that, too, was clean and he had nothing to do to keep from agonizing about Bucky.  He had been in that room an awfully long time.  Steve looked at the clock and was surprised to find that it had only been about forty-five minutes.  He looked at Bucky’s door.  The light was still on, but the movement seemed to have ceased.  He hesitated, wondering if he should investigate or not.

            After a few painful moments, he decided he had better follow Sam’s advice and wait.  Bucky would want to do things on his own terms.  He always had.  Steve settled himself down on the couch, not wanting to leave the common area and a good view of Bucky’s door.  He thought about when they were kids, always following Bucky and looking up to him.  As they’d gotten older, he’d had the startling revelation that Bucky looked up to _him_.  Bucky was a good student, a good athlete, and good with girls; Steve had been at a loss for why Bucky would follow him.  It wasn’t until they’d served with the Howling Commandos, when many men had wanted to follow him, that he’d started to understand.  Peggy was the same way; she’d seen his potential when he was just a skinny kid from Brooklyn.  And so had Bucky.  He would never have become Captain America without the two of them.

            So, when he’d woken up from the ice, he’d gone to see Peggy.  He kept going, despite the pain it caused him to see her forget him.  To see her recognize him again as though they hadn’t seen each other in seventy years.  He owed her, and he ached for someone to talk to about the past.  It was so recent to him.  And he’d gone to the Smithsonian, to see Bucky.  He knew where his friend’s gravestone was, but he’d known it was empty long before he’d discovered he wasn’t dead.  It was better to go see him, since they had a lot of pictures and a few videos.  None of them had sound, though.  He missed Bucky’s easy laugh and wasn’t sure, now, if he’d ever hear it again.  Bucky didn’t have much reason to laugh these days.

            When they were kids, it was Steve who was serious and rarely laughed.  It was the Depression, though, so that was pretty normal.  But Bucky did.  He’d been pragmatic and well-aware of what folks were going through, but he usually found something to laugh about.  Steve had always appreciated that, especially when he was young and struggling with his size and poor health.  Going to war had changed that aspect of Bucky some, but it was still there.  He laughed less, smiled less, but did joke more.  The jokes were just more serious, more necessary to relieve the strain they were all under than actually funny.  Steve wondered if the change was just the war, or part of being a prisoner of Zola.  The thought was upsetting and he clenched his jaw, turning to look toward the door again, checking that Bucky was safe here again.

            “Hey, Cap, sorry it took so long,” Sam said as the elevator opened down the hall.

            “It’s fine,” Steve replied quietly, getting to his feet.

            “He hasn’t come out yet?” Sam asked, looking concerned.

            “No.”

            They exchanged a look, then walked down to Bucky’s door.  “Hey, James, you okay in there?” Steve asked, knocking lightly.  There was no response.

            “Maybe he just doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Sam suggested.

            Steve frowned.  “JARVIS?  Is James still in his room?” he asked softly.

            “No, sir,” the computer voice replied nearby, as quietly as he’d asked the question.

            Steve swore under his breath, wanting very much to punch the wall.  “Where did he go?”

            “I don’t know, sir.  He left through his window twenty-two minutes ago,” JARVIS said helpfully.

            “His window?” Sam asked.

            Steve opened the door and quickly searched his friend’s room.  The file sat open on the bed, George Porter’s face staring up at him.  The window was open, and Steve rushed over to look out.  There was no sign of Bucky, which was something of a relief.  He hadn’t jumped.  The height was certainly enough to kill a man.  Well, a normal man.  Who knew if it would kill either of them.  The outside of the building was scalable.

            “Where could he have gone this time?” Sam interrupted his thoughts, standing beside him.

            Steve glanced back at the file.  “I think I know,” he said resignedly.  “We’d better hurry.”


	15. Save Me Because All I Do Is Damage

 

            Natasha is downstairs, as she said.  He has climbed out his window and down the wall outside to avoid attracting Steve’s notice.  What he needs to do needs to be done without Steve.  Still, he doesn’t know where to go on his own.  So he finds Natasha.  She is sitting on the couch downstairs, changed out of her mission gear and into loose clothing similar to his own.  He has considered putting his mission gear back on, but doesn’t want to.  Not for this.

            “Can I help you with something?” she asks, when she notices him standing nearby.

            “Yes.”

            She looks up at him, sees the look on his face, and nods.  “You remembered him.”  He doesn’t move.  “You want me to take you to him.”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay.”  She stands up and they walk down to the elevator, to the motor pool, and drive out into the city.  He pays close attention to where they are going.  It doesn’t take long to reach the building.  When she starts to get out of the car, he puts his left hand on her shoulder, arresting her movement.  He can feel her stiffen, ready to attack or evade.

            “Where is he?” he asks quietly.

            She looks at him sharply.  “Cell 531.  On the 5th floor.”

            “Do I need clearance to get there?”

            “No, it’s an old facility.  Not automated,” she says, shaking her head, watching him carefully, holding very still under his metal fingers.

            “Then you can leave,” he tells her, and gets out of the vehicle.  He walks toward the elevator on the other side of the parking garage, aware that she is still sitting there, watching him.  He doesn’t care.  Even if she tells Steve, he should have time to finish before he could possibly arrive to stop him.

            The building is silent.  The sound of the elevator seems almost deafening in comparison.  He stands patiently in the center of it, arms folded over his chest, legs spread apart.  When the ping indicates he is on his floor, he strides forward and quickly surveys his surroundings.  It is a long narrow hallway, with white doors every few feet on either side.  They must be small cells.  He finds 531 and opens the deadbolt.  Inside, there is a man lying on the cot.   George Porter.

            When the door is opened, the man sits up and blinks at him owlishly, the light from the hallway illuminating the space.  He is aware that he is silhouetted and waits until the man recognizes him.  The moment is easy to pinpoint, as Porter presses himself against the wall and whispers “Oh, God.”

            He steps inside, shutting the door behind him, flicking on the dim light so the soldier can see.  He doesn’t care if Porter can see him.  “You took everything from me,” he says calmly.

            “Oh, please, no, please, I didn’t,” Porter snivels.

            “You weren’t the first.  But you were thorough,” he insists.

            “I didn’t know, I didn’t have a choice, they had - ” he began.

            “I don’t care.”  Porter shut up, staring at him with wide eyes.  “Could you pick and choose what memories you took, or did you have to take them all?” he asks quietly, dangerously.

            “They wanted it all gone, it wasn’t -”

            “Your choice.  I know.  Answer the question.”

            Porter swallows hard.  “We could choose.”

            “Keep talking.”

            “The first procedures, from when they found you, were inexact and took everything.  But we worked on it and could erase just what needed to go.  It was useful for other … people, but they always wanted us to take everything from you.”

            “Did you know why?”

            Porter looks around nervously, as though expecting some phantom of his former employees to come silence him.  As if the soldier doesn’t already fit this description.  “They said you’d keep remembering things if you were allowed to, if you had somewhere to start.  That it would break your programming and make you unstable.”

            He gives a quick nod when the man stares at him, afraid.  “The place where we found you.  Did you have your equipment there?”

            “Yes,” Porter says slowly.

            “If I take you there,” he pauses, taking a deep breath.  “Can you wipe some of it away?”

            Porter looks surprised.  And possibly relieved.  “What parts?”

            “The last seventy years,” he says flatly.

            “I think I can do that,” Porter says, his eyes pitying, the fear fading.

            The soldier reaches out and grabs him by the throat with his left hand.  “I can make things very unpleasant for you if you don’t do exactly as you’re told, even if I don’t remember anything.”  The man nods hastily.  He lets him go and turns around to open the door.  Before he can, it bursts open and Steve stands in the doorway.  He sighs.  He thought had more time.

            “Bucky!  Don’t!” Steve cries, then stops, taking in the scene.

            “I wasn’t going to,” James replies placidly, folding his arms over his chest.

            Steve frowns, looking from him to Porter and back.  “Can I talk to you alone?” he asks finally, stepping back into the hallway.  He follows, glancing back and shrugging at Porter when he meets his eye.

            “I’m on a mission here, Steve,” he tells his friend when he shuts the door behind him.

            “What exactly is your mission?” Steve asks, staring at him intently.

            He looks away.  “I thought he might be able to help.”  He pauses, motioning toward his head.  “Get rid of some stuff I’d rather not be there.”

            When James looks up, Steve’s face is crestfallen.  It’s the third time he’s seen it this way, and it hurts.  He frowns and looks away again.  “Bucky, I don’t think that’s a good idea.  Who knows what he might be able to do if you let him in your head?”  James shrugs.  “Maybe we can find someone who we trust to help,” Steve suggests.

            “Are there a lot of people involved in brainwashing you would trust?” he asks harshly.

            “No,” Steve admits.  He is watching him, watching James, very carefully.  “Why do you want this?”

            He sighs.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

            Steve takes a deep breath.  “When Dr. Erskine was getting me ready for the procedure, he said the serum would amplify whatever was already inside.  The Red Skull was always evil, it just made him more so.  I always wanted to help people, and now I can, more than ever.”  James shrugs, turning away, not wanting to hear more.  Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and he stops, but doesn’t turn back.  “You were a great sniper, a good soldier, yes.  And you became better at both of those things after.  But you were also a good man.  You wanted to do what was best for those you loved.  Don’t you think those things were amplified, too?”

            “Do you?” he whispers.

            “Yes.  Bucky, you saved me.  You didn’t know who I was, but you didn’t finish your mission and you saved my life when given the chance.  I don’t know what lies HYDRA told you, but I’m sure they had to or you wouldn’t have done what they told you to do.”

            James thinks of Pierce, telling him how he’d shaped the century.  Why had he felt the need to tell him these things?  Was he noncompliant otherwise?  If not given a good reason to do his mission?  He didn’t know.  Few memories from before the missions themselves have surfaced.  “Why are you doing this?” he asks quietly.

            “Because you’re my friend.”

            There is considerable pain in Steve’s voice.  James turns to look at him, surprised by the expression on his face.  “You aren’t guilty of any of this,” he tells him.

            “Without me, you wouldn’t have still been at war.  You wouldn’t have fallen.  They wouldn’t have taken you after.  You’d never have had seventy years of experiences you want to erase,” Steve says softly, brokenly.

            He clenches his jaw, reaching out, tentatively, to grasp Steve’s shoulder with his right hand.  “Without you?  They were experimenting on me before you came along.  It’s not your fault I was turned into a machine.  But without you, I’d still be him,” he tells him firmly.

            Steve smiles, slowly.  He looks toward the door of the cell and then meets his eye.  “Do you really want to lose more?”

He sighs.  “No.”

“Let’s go home,” Steve suggests, voice rising at the end in question.

            He glances back at the door, considering.  “Yeah, let’s go home,” James says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who's enjoyed this series!


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